WfrU^ 

University  of  California  •  Berkeley 


LOOK !  WE  HAVE 
COME  THROUGH! 


LOOK!   WE   HAVE 
COME  THROUGH! 


BY 

D.  H.  LAWRENCE 


PUBLISHED    BY     B.     W.    HUEBSCH 
NEW  YORK  MCMXVIII 


Printed  in  England 


FOREWORD 

THESE   poems   should   not   be   considered 

separately,  as  so  many  single  pieces.    They 

are  intended  as  an  essential  story,  or  history, 

or  confession,  unfolding  one  from  the  other 

in  organic  development,  the  whole  revealing 

the  intrinsic  experience  of  a  man  during 

the  crisis   of  manhood,  when  he  marries 

and  comes  into  himself.     The  period 

covered  is,  roughly,  the  sixth  lustre 

of  a  man's  life 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

MOONRISE  ii 

ELEGY  12 

NONENTITY  13 

MARTYR  A  LA  MODE  14 

DON  JUAN  i? 

THE  SEA  18 

HYMN  TO  PRIAPUS  20 

BALLAD  OF  A  WILFUL  WOMAN  23 

FIRST  MORNING  3° 

"  AND  OH 

THAT  THE  MAN  I  AM  MIGHT  CEASE  TO  BE "    32 

SHE  LOOKS  BACK  34 

ON  THE  BALCONY  39 

FROHNLEICHNAM  40 

IN  THE  DARK  43 

MUTILATION  47 

HUMILIATION  5° 

AVYOUNG  WIFE  52 

GREEN  54 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

RIVER  ROSES  5S 

GLOIRE  DE  DIJON  56 

ROSES  ON  THE  BREAKFAST  TABLE  57 

I  AM  LIKE  A  ROSE  5g 

ROSE  OF  ALL  THE  WORLD  S9 

A  YOUTH  MOWING  6l 

QUITE  FORSAKEN  6z 

FORSAKEN  AND  FORLORN  63 

FIREFLIES  IN  THE  CORN  64 

A  DOE  AT  EVENING  66 

SONG  OF  A  MAN  WHO  IS  NOT  LOVED  68 

SINNERS  ?0 

MISERY  ?2 

SUNDAY  AFTERNOON  IN  ITALY  73 

WINTER  DAWN  7S 

A  BAD  BEGINNING  77 

WHY  DOES  SHE  WEEP  ?  79 

GIORNO  DEI  MORTI  8l 

ALL  SOULS  82 

LADY  WIFE  84 

BOTH  SIDES  OF  THE  MEDAL  87 

LOGGERHEADS  89 

DECEMBER  NIGHT  gi 
NEW  YEAR'S  EVE 


CONTENTS 

PAGE 

NEW  YEAR'S  NIGHT  93 

VALENTINE'S  NIGHT  94 

BIRTH  NIGHT  95 

RABBIT  SNARED  IN  THE  NIGHT  97 

PARADISE  RE-ENTERED  100 

SPRING  MORNING  103 

WEDLOCK  105 

HISTORY  112 

SONG  OF  A  MAN  WHO  HAS  COME  THROUGH  113 

ONE  WOMAN  TO  ALL  WOMEN  115 

PEOPLE  118 

STREET  LAMPS  119 

"  SHE  SAID  AS  WELL  TO  ME  "  121 

NEW  HEAVEN  AND  EARTH  125 

ELYSIUM  137 

MANIFESTO  139 

AUTUMN  RAIN  152 

FROST  FLOWERS  154 

CRAVING  FOR  SPRING  157 


ARGUMENT 

After  much  struggling  and  loss  in  love  and  in 
the  world  of  man,  the  protagonist  throws  in 
his  lot  with  a  woman  who  is  already  married. 
Together  they  go  into  another  country,  she 
perforce  leaving  her  children  behind.  The 
conflict  of  love  and  hate  goes  on  between  the 
man  and  the  woman,  and  between  these  two 
and  the  world  around  them,  till  it  reaches 
some  sort  of  conclusion,  they  transcend  into 
some  condition  of  blessedness 


MOONRISE 

AND  who  has  seen  the  moon,  who  has  not  seen 
Her  rise  from  out  the  chamber  of  the  deep, 
Flushed  and  grand  and  naked,  as  from  the  chamber 
Of  finished  bridegroom,  seen  her  rise  and  throw 
Confession  of  delight  upon  the  wave, 
Littering  the  waves  with  her  own  superscription 
Of  bliss,  till  all  her  lambent  beauty  shakes  towards 

us 

Spread  out  and  known  at  last,  and  we  are  sure 
That  beauty  is  a  thing  beyond  the  grave, 
That  perfect,  bright  experience  never  falls 
To  nothingness,  and  time  will  dim  the  moon 
Sooner  than  our  full  consummation  here 
In  this  odd  life  will  tarnish  or  pass  away. 


ii 


ARGUMENT 

After  much  struggling  and  loss  in  love  and  in 
the  world  of  man,  the  protagonist  throws  in 
his  lot  with  a  woman  who  is  already  married. 
Together  they  go  into  another  country,  she 
perforce  leaving  her  children  behind.  The 
conflict  of  love  and  hate  goes  on  between  the 
man  and  the  woman,  and  between  these  two 
and  the  world  around  them,  till  it  reaches 
some  sort  of  conclusion,  they  transcend  into 
some  condition  of  blessedness 


MOONRISE 

AND  who  has  seen  the  moon,  who  has  not  seen 
Her  rise  from  out  the  chamber  of  the  deep, 
Flushed  and  grand  and  naked,  as  from  the  chamber 
Of  finished  bridegroom,  seen  her  rise  and  throw 
Confession  of  delight  upon  the  wave, 
Littering  the  waves  with  her  own  superscription 
Of  bliss,  till  all  her  lambent  beauty  shakes  towards 

us 

Spread  out  and  known  at  last,  and  we  are  sure 
That  beauty  is  a  thing  beyond  the  grave, 
That  perfect,  bright  experience  never  falls 
To  nothingness,  and  time  will  dim  the  moon 
Sooner  than  our  full  consummation  here 
In  this  odd  life  will  tarnish  or  pass  away. 


ii 


ELEGY 

THE  sun  immense  and  rosy 

Must  have  sunk  and  become  extinct 

The  night  you  closed  your  eyes  for  ever  against  me. 

Grey  days,  and  wan,  dree  dawnings 
Since  then,  with  fritter  of  flowers — 
Day  wearies  me  with  its  ostentation  and  f awnings. 

Still,  you  left  me  the  nights, 
The  great  dark  glittery  window, 
The  bubble  hemming  this  empty  existence  with 
lights. 

Still  in  the  vast  hollow 
Like  a  breath  in  a  bubble  spinning 
Brushing  the  stars,  goes  my  soul,  that  skims  the 
bounds  like  a  swallow  ! 

I  can  look  through 

The  film  of  the  bubble  night,  to  where  you  are. 

Through  the  film  I  can  almost  touch  you. 

EASTWOOD 

12 


NONENTITY 


THE  stars  that  open  and  shut 
Fall  on  my  shallow  breast 
Like  stars  on  a  pool. 

The'soft  wind,  blowing  cool 
Laps  little  crest  after  crest 
Of  ripples  across  my  breast. 

And  dark  grass  under  my  feet 
Seems  to  dabble  in  me 
Like  grass  in  a  brook. 

Oh,  and  it  is  sweet 

To  be  all  these  things,  not  to  be 

Any  more  myself. 

For  look, 

I  am  weary  of  myself ! 


MARTYR  A  LA  MODE 

AH  God,  life,  law,  so  many  names  you  keep, 
You  great,  you  patient  Effort,  and  you  Sleep 
That  does  inform  this  various  dream  of  living, 
You  sleep  stretched  out  for  ever,  ever  giving 
Us  out  as  dreams,  you  august  Sleep 
Coursed  round  by  rhythmic  movement  of  all 

time, 

The  constellations,  your  great  heart,  the  sun 
Fierily  pulsing,  unable  to  refrain  ; 
Since  you,  vast,  outstretched,  wordless  Sleep 
Permit  of  no  beyond,  ah  you,  whose  dreams 
We  are,  and  body  of  sleep,  let  it  never  be  said 
I  quailed  at  my  appointed  function,  turned  poltroon 

For  when  at  night,  from  out  the  full  surcharge 
Of  a  day's  experience,  sleep  does  slowly  draw 
The  harvest,  the  spent  action  to  itself ; 
Leaves  me  unburdened  to  begin  again  ; 
At  night,  I  say,  when  I  am  gone  in  sleep, 
Does  my  slow  heart  rebel,  do  my  dead  hands 
Complain  of  what  the  day  has  had  them  do  ? 


MARTYR  A   LA   MODE 

Never  let  it  be  said  I  was  poltroon 
At  this  my  task  of  living,  this  my  dream, 
This  me  which  rises  from  the  dark  of  sleep 
In  white  flesh  robed  to  drape  another  dream, 
As  lightning  comes  all  white  and  trembling 
From  out  the  cloud  of  sleep,  looks  round  about 
One  moment,  sees,  and  swift  its  dream  is  over, 
In  one  rich  drip  it  sinks  to  another  sleep, 
And  sleep  thereby  is  one  more  dream  enrichened. 

If  so  the  Vast,  the  God,  the  Sleep  that  still  grows 

richer 

Have  said  that  I,  this  mote  in  the  body  of  sleep 
Must  in  my  transiency  pass  all  through  pain, 
Must  be  a  dream  of  grief,  must  like  a  crude 
Dull  meteorite  flash  only  into  light 
When  tearing  through  the  anguish  of  this  life, 
Still  in  full  flight  extinct,  shall  I  then  turn 
Poltroon,  and  beg  the  silent,  outspread  God 
To  alter  my  one  speck  of  doom,  when  round  me 

burns 

The  whole  great  conflagration  of  all  life, 
Lapped  like  a  body  close  upon  a  sleep, 
Hiding  and  covering  in  the  eternal  Sleep 
Within  the  immense  and  toilsome  life-time, 

heaved 
With  ache  of  dreams  that  body  forth  the  Sleep  ? 

15 


MARTYR   A   LA   MODE 

Shall  I,  less  than  the  least  red  grain  of  flesh 
Within  my  body,  cry  out  to  the  dreaming  soul 
That  slowly  labours  in  a  vast  travail, 
To  halt  the  heart,  divert  the  streaming  flow 
That  carries  moons  along,  and  spare  the  stress 
That  crushes  me  to  an  unseen  atom  of  fire  ? 

When  pain  and  all 

And  grief  are  but  the  same  last  wonder,  Sleep 

Rising  to  dream  in  me  a  small  keen  dream 

Of  sudden  anguish,  sudden  over  and  spent 

CROYDON 


16 


DON  JUAN 


IT  is  Isis  the  mystery 
Must  be  in  love  with  me. 

Here  this  round  ball  of  earth 
Where  all  the  mountains  sit 
Solemn  in  groups, 
And  the  bright  rivers  flit 
Round  them  for  girth. 

Here  the  trees  and  troops 
Darken  the  shining  grass, 
And  many  people  pass 
Plundered  from  heaven, 
Many  bright  people  pass, 
Plunder  from  heaven. 

What  of  the  mistresses 
What  the  beloved  seven  ? 
— They  were  but  witnesses, 
I  was  just  driven. 

Where  is  there  peace  for  me  ? 

Isis  the  mystery 

Must  be  in  love  with  me. 

B  17 


THE  SEA 

You,  you  are  all  unloving,  loveless,  you  ; 
Restless  and  lonely,  shaken  by  your  own  moods, 
You  are  celibate  and  single,  scorning  a  comrade  even, 
Threshing  your  own  passions  with  no  woman  for 

the  threshing-floor,  i 

Finishing  your  dreams  for  your  own  sake  only,      ! 
Playing  your  great  game  around  the  world,  alone, 
Without  playmate,  or  helpmate,  having  no  one  to 

cherish, 
No  one  to  comfort,  and  refusing  any  comforter. 

Not  like  the  earth,  the  spouse  all  full  of  increase 
Moiled  over  with  the  rearing  of  her  many-mouthed 

young  ; 
You  are  single,  you  are  fruitless,  phosphorescent, 

cold  and  callous, 

Naked  of  worship,  of  love  or  of  adornment, 
Scorning  the  panacea  even  of  labour, 
Sworn  to  a  high  and  splendid  purposelessness 
Of  brooding  and  delighting  in  the  secret  of  life's 

goings, 

Sea,  only  you  are  free,  sophisticated. 
18 


THE   SEA 

You  who  toil  not,  you  who  spin  not, 
Surely  but  for  you  and  your  like,  toiling 
Were  not  worth  while,  nor  spinning  worth  the 
effort! 

You  who  take  the  moon  as  in  a  sieve,  and  sift 
Her  flake  by  flake  and  spread  her  meaning  out ; 
You  who  roll  the  stars  like  jewels  in  your  palm, 
So  that  they  seem  to  utter  themselves  aloud  ; 
You  who  steep  from  out  the  days  their  colour, 
Reveal  the  universal  tint  that  dyes 
Their  web  ;  who  shadow  the  sun's  great  gestures 

and  expressions 

So  that  he  seems  a  stranger  in  his  passing  ; 
Who  voice  the  dumb  night  fittingly  ; 
Sea,  you  shadow  of  all  things,  now  mock  us  to 

death  with  your  shadowing. 

BOURNEMOUTH 


HYMN  TO  PRIAPUS 

MY  love  lies  underground 

With  her  face  upturned  to  mine, 

And  her  mouth  unclosed  in  a  last  long  kiss 

That  ended  her  life  and  mine. 


I  dance  at  the  Christmas  party 
Under  the  mistletoe 
Along  with  a  ripe,  slack  country  lass 
Jostling  to  and  fro. 


The  big,  soft  country  lass, 

Like  a  loose  sheaf  of  wheat 

Slipped  through  my  arms  on  the  threshing  floor 

At  my  feet. 


The  warm,  soft  country  lass, 
Sweet  as  an  armful  of  wheat 
At  threshing-time  broken,  was  broken 
For  me,  and  ah,  it  was  sweet ! 
20 


HYMN   TO   PRIAPUS 

Now  I  am  going  home 
Fulfilled  and  alone, 
I  see  the  great  Orion  standing 
Looking  down. 

He's  the  star  of  my  first  beloved 

Love-making. 

The  witness  of  all  that  bitter-sweet 

Heart-aching. 

Now  he  sees  this  as  well, 
This  last  commission. 
Nor  do  I  get  any  look 
Of  admonition. 

He  can  add  the  reckoning  up 

I  suppose,  between  now  and  then, 

Having  walked  himself  in  the  thorny,  difficult 

Ways  of  men. 

He  has  done  as  I  have  done 
No  doubt : 

Remembered  and  forgotten 
Turn  and  about. 

My  love  lies  underground 

With  her  face  upturned  to  mine, 

And  her  mouth  unclosed  in  the  last  long  kiss 

That  ended  her  life  and  mine. 

21 


HYMN   TO   PRIAPUS 

She  fares  in  the  stark  immortal 
Fields  of  death ; 
I  in  these  goodly,  frozen 
Fields  beneath. 

Something  in  me  remembers 

And  will  not  forget. 

The  stream  of  my  life  in  the  darkness 

Deathward  set ! 

And  something  in  me  has  forgotten, 
Has  ceased  to  care. 
Desire  comes  up,  and  contentment 
Is  debonair. 

I,  who  am  worn  and  careful, 
How  much  do  I  care  ? 
How  is  it  I  grin  then,  and  chuckle 
Over  despair  ? 

Grief,  grief,  I  suppose  and  sufficient 
Grief  makes  us  free 
To  be  faithless  and  faithful  together 
As  we  have  to  be. 


22 


BALLAD  OF  A  WILFUL  WOMAN 

FIRST  PART 

UPON  her  plodding  palfrey 
With  a  heavy  child  at  her  breast 
And  Joseph  holding  the  bridle 
They  mount  to  the  last  hill-crest. 

Dissatisfied  and  weary 
She  sees  the  blade  of  the  sea 
Dividing  earth  and  heaven 
In  a  glitter  of  ecstasy. 

Sudden  a  dark-faced  stranger 
With  his  back  to  the  sun,  holds  out 
His  arms  ;  so  she  lights  from  her  palfrey 
And  turns  her  round  about. 

She  has  given  the  child  to  Joseph, 
Gone  down  to  the  flashing  shore  ; 
And  Joseph,  shading  'his  eyes  with  his  hand, 
Stands  watching  evermore. 


BALLAD  OF  A  WILFUL  WOMAN 


SECOND  PART 

THE  sea  in  the  stones  is  singing, 
A  woman  binds  her  hair 
With  yellow,  frail  sea-poppies, 
That  shine  as  her  ringers  stir. 

While  a  naked  man  comes  swiftly 
Like  a  spurt  of  white  foam  rent 
From  the  crest  of  a  falling  breaker, 
Over  the  poppies  sent. 

He  puts  his  surf -wet  fingers 

Over  her  startled  eyes, 

And  asks  if  she  sees  the  land,  the  land, 

The  land  of  her  glad  surmise. 


BALLAD  OF  A  WILFUL  WOMAN 


THIRD  PART 

AGAIN  in  her  blue,  blue  mantle 
Riding  at  Joseph's  side, 
She  says,  "  I  went  to  Cythera, 
And  woe  betide  !  ' 

Her  heart  is  a  swinging  cradle 

That  holds  the  perfect  child, 

But  the  shade  on  her  forehead  ill  becomes 

A  mother  mild. 

So  on  with  the  slow,  mean  journey 

In  the  pride  of  humility  ; 

Till  they  halt  at  a  cliff  on  the  edge  of  the  land 

Over  a  sullen  sea. 

While  Joseph  pitches  the  sleep-tent 
She  goes  far  down  to  the  shore 
To  where  a  man  in  a  heaving  boat 
Waits  with  a  lifted  oar. 


BALLAD  OF  A  WILFUL  WOMAN 


FOURTH  PART 

THEY  dwelt  in  a  huge,  hoarse  sea-cave 
And  looked  far  down  the  dark 
Where  an  archway  torn  and  glittering 
Shone  like  a  huge  sea-spark. 

He  said  :  "  Do  you  see  the  spirits 
Crowding  the  bright  doorway  ?  ' 
He  said  :    '  Do  you  hear  them  whispering  ?  ' 
He  said  :  "  Do  you  catch  what  they  say  ?  " 


BALLAD  OF  A  WILFUL  WOMAN 


FIFTH  PART 

THEN  Joseph,  grey  with  waiting, 
His  dark  eyes  full  of  pain, 
Heard  :   "I  have  been  to  Patmos  ; 
Give  me  the  child  again." 

Now  on  with  the  hopeless  journey 
Looking  bleak  ahead  she  rode, 
And  the  man  and  the  child  of  no  more  account 
Than  the  earth  the  palfrey  trode. 

Till  a  beggar  spoke  to  Joseph, 

But  looked  into  her  eyes  ; 

So  she  turned,  and  said  to  her  husband  : 

"  I  give,  whoever  denies." 


27 


SIXTH   PART 

SHE  gave  on  the  open  heather 

Beneath  bare  judgment  stars, 

And  she  dreamed  of  her  children  and  Joseph, 

And  the  isles,  and  her  men,  and  her  scars. 

And  she  woke  to  distil  the  berries 
The  beggar  had  gathered  at  night, 
Whence  he  drew  the  curious  liquors 
He  held  in  delight. 

He  gave  her  no  crown  of  flowers, 
No  child  and  no  palfrey  slow, 
Only  led  her  through  harsh,  hard  places 
Where  strange  winds  blow. 

She  follows  his  restless  wanderings 
Till  night  when,  by  the  fire's  red  stain, 
Her  face  is  bent  in  the  bitter  steam 
That  comes  from  the  flowers  of  pain. 

Then  merciless  and  ruthless 
He  takes  the  flame-wild  drops 
To  the  town,  and  tries  to  sell  them 
With  the  market-crops. 
28 


BALLAD  OFA  WILFUL  WOMAN 

So  she  follows  the  cruel  journey 
That  ends  not  anywhere, 
And  dreams,  as  she  stirs  the  mixing-pot, 
She  is  brewing  hope  from  despair. 


TRIER 


29 


FIRST  MORNING 

THE  night  was  a  failure 
but  why  not ? 

In  the  darkness 

with  the  pale  dawn  seething  at  the  window 

through  the  black  frame 

I  could  not  be  free, 

not  free  myself  from  the  past,  those  others — 

and  our  love  was  a  confusion, 

there  was  a  horror, 

you  recoiled  away  from  me. 

Now,  in  the  morning 

As  we  sit  in  the  sunshine  on  the  seat  by  the  little 

shrine, 

And  look  at  the  mountain-walls, 
Walls  of  blue  shadow, 
And  see  so  near  at  our  feet  in  the  meadow 
Myriads  of  dandelion  pappus 
Bubbles  ravelled  in  the  dark  green  grass 
Held  still  beneath  the  sunshine — 
30 


FIRST   MORNING 

It  is  enough,  you  are  near — 
The  mountains  are  balanced, 
The  dandelion  seeds  stay  half-submerged  in  the 

grass  ; 

You  and  I  together 
We  hold  them  proud  and  blithe 
On  our  love. 

They  stand  upright  on  our  love, 
Everything  starts  from  us, 
We  are  the  source. 

BEUERBERG 


31 


"AND  OH  — 

THAT  THE  MAN  I  AM 
MIGHT  CEASE  TO  BE- 


No,  now  I  wish  the  sunshine  would  stop, 

and  the  white  shining  houses,  and  the  gay  red 

flowers  on  the  balconies 
and  the  bluish  mountains  beyond,  would  be  crushed 

out 

between  two  valves  of  darkness  ; 
the   darkness   falling,   the   darkness   rising,   with 

muffled  sound 
obliterating  everything. 


I  wish  that  whatever  props  up  the  walls  of  light 
would   fall,    and    darkness   would   come   hurling 

heavily  down, 

and  it  would  be  thick  black  dark  for  ever. 
Not  sleep,  which  is  grey  with  dreams, 
nor  death,  which  quivers  with  birth, 
but  heavy,  sealing  darkness,  silence,  all  immovable. 

32 


AND   OH 

What  is  sleep  ? 

It  goes  over  me,  like  a  shadow  over  a  hill, 

but  it  does  not  alter  me,  nor  help  me. 

And  death  would  ache  still,  I  am  sure  ; 

it  would  be  lambent,  uneasy. 

I  wish  it  would  be  completely  dark  everywhere, 

inside  me,  and  out,  heavily  dark 

utterly. 

WOLFRATSHAUSEN 


33 


SHE  LOOKS  BACK 

THE  pale  bubbles 

The  lovely  pale-gold  bubbles  of  the  globe-flowers 

In  a  great  swarm  clotted  and  single 

Went  rolling  in  the  dusk  towards  the  river 

To  where  the  sunset  hung  its  wan  gold  cloths  ; 

And  you  stood  alone,  watching  them  go, 

And   that  mother-love   like   a   demon   drew  you 

from  me 
Towards  England. 

Along  the  road,  after  nightfall, 

Along  the  glamorous  birch-tree  avenue 

Across  the  river  levels 

We  went  in  silence,  and  you  staring  to  England. 

So  then  there  shone  within  the  jungle  darkness 
Of  the   long,   lush   under-grass,   a   glow-worm's 

sudden 
Green  lantern  of  pure  light,  a  little,  intense,  fusing 

triumph, 
White  and  haloed  with  fire-mist,   down  in  the 

tangled  darkness. 

34 


SHE   LOOKS    BACK 

Then  you  put  your  hand  in  mine  again,  kissed  me, 

and  we  struggled  to  be  together. 
And  the  little  electric  flashes  went  with  us,  in  the 

grass, 
Tiny  lighthouses,  little  souls  of  lanterns,  courage 

burst  into  an  explosion  of  green  light 
Everywhere  down  in  the  grass,  where  darkness  was 

ravelled  in  darkness. 

Still,  the  kiss  was  a  touch  of  bitterness  on  my  mouth 

Like  salt,  burning  in. 

And  my  hand  withered  in  your  hand. 

For  you  were  straining  with  a  wild  heart,  back, 

back  again, 
Back  to  those  children  you  had  left  behind,  to  all 

the  aeons  of  the  past. 
And  I  was  here  in  the  under-dusk  of  the  Isar. 

At  home,  we  leaned  in  the  bedroom  window 

Of  the  old  Bavarian  Gasthaus, 

And  the  frogs  in  the  pool  beyond  thrilled  with 

exuberance, 

Like  a  boiling  pot  the  pond  crackled  with  happiness, 
Like  a  rattle  a  child  spins  round  for  joy,  the  night 

rattled 

With  the  extravagance  of  the  frogs, 
And  you  leaned  your  cheek  on  mine, 
And  I  suffered  it,  wanting  to  sympathise. 

35 


SHE   LOOKS    BACK 

At  last,  as  you  stood,  your  white  gown  falling  from 

your  breasts, 
You  looked  into  my  eyes,  and  said  :   "  But  this  is 

joy  !  " 

I  acquiesced  again. 

But  the  shadow  of  lying  was  in  your  eyes, 
The  mother  in  you,  fierce  as  a  murderess,  glaring 

to  England, 
Yearning  towards  England,  towards  your  young 

children, 
Insisting  upon  your  motherhood,  devastating. 

Still,  the  joy  was  there  also,  you  spoke  truly, 
The  joy  was  not  to  be  driven  off  so  easily  ; 
Stronger  than  fear  or  destructive  mother-love,  it 

stood  flickering  ; 

The  frogs  helped  also,  whirring  away. 
Yet  how  I  have  learned  to  know  that  look  in  your 

eyes 

Of  horrid  sorrow  ! 
How   I   know  that  glitter  of  salt, — dry,   sterile, 

sharp,  corrosive  salt ! 
Not  tears,  but  white  sharp  brine 
Making  hideous  your  eyes. 

I  have  seen  it,  felt  it  in  my  mouth,  my  throat,  my 
chest,  my  belly, 

36 


SHE    LOOKS    BACK 

Burning  of  powerful  salt,  burning,  eating  through 

my  defenceless  nakedness. 
I  have  been  thrust  into  white,  sharp  crystals, 
Writhing,  twisting,  superpenetrated. 

Ah,  Lot's  Wife,  Lot's  Wife  ! 

The  pillar  of  salt,  the  whirling,  horrible  column 

of  salt,  like  a  waterspout 
That  has  enveloped  me  ! 
Snow  of  salt,  white,  burning,  eating  salt 
In  which  I  have  writhed. 

Lot's  Wife  !— Not  Wife,  but  Mother. 

I  have  learned  to  curse  your  motherhood, 

You  pillar  of  salt  accursed. 

I  have  cursed  motherhood  because  of  you, 

Accursed,  base  motherhood  ! 

I  long  for  the  time  to  come,  when  the  curse  against 
you  will  have  gone  out  of  my  heart. 

But  it  has  not  gone  yet. 

Nevertheless,  once,  the  frogs,  the  globe-flowers  of 
Bavaria,  the  glow-worms 

Gave  me  sweet  lymph  against  the  salt-burns, 

There  is  a  kindness  in  the  very  rain. 

Therefore,  even  in  the  hour  of  my  deepest,  pas- 
sionate malediction 

37 


SHE    LOOKS    BACK 

I  try  to  remember  it  is  also  well  between  us. 

That  you  are  with  me  in  the  end. 

That  you  never  look  quite  back  ;   nine-tenths,  ah, 

more 

You  look  round  over  your  shoulder  ; 
But  never  quite  back. 

Nevertheless  the  curse  against  you  is  still  in  my 

heart 

Like  a  deep,  deep  burn. 
The  curse  against  all  mothers. 
All  mothers  who  fortify  themselves  in  motherhood, 

devastating  the  vision. 

They  are  accursed,  and  the  curse  is  not  taken  off 
It  burns  within  me  like  a  deep,  old  burn, 
And  oh,  I  wish  it  was  better. 

BEUERBERG 


38 


ON  THE  BALCONY 

IN  front  of  the  sombre  mountains,  a  faint,  lost 

ribbon  of  rainbow  ; 
And  between  us  and  it,  the  thunder  ; 
And  down  below  in  the  green  wheat,  the  labourers 
Stand  like  dark  stumps,  still  in  the  green  wheat. 

You  are  near  to  me,  and  your  naked  feet  in  their 

sandals, 
And  through  the  scent  of  the  balcony's  naked 

timber 
I  distinguish  the  scent  of  your  hair :  so  now  the 

limber 
Lightning  falls  from  heaven. 

Adown  the  pale-green  glacier  river  floats 
A  dark  boat  through  the  gloom — and  whither  ? 
The  thunder  roars.    But  still  we  have  each  other  ! 
The  naked  lightnings  in  the  heavens  dither 
And  disappear — what  have  we  but  each  other  ? 
The  boat  has  gone. 

ICKING 

39 


FROHNLEICHNAM 

You  have  come  your  way,  I  have  come  my  way  ; 
You  have  stepped  across  your  people,  carelessly, 

hurting  them  all ; 
I  have  stepped  across  my  people,  and  hurt  them 

in  spite  of  my  care. 

But  steadily,  surely,  and  notwithstanding 
We  have  come  our  ways  and  met  at  last 
Here  in  this  upper  room. 

Here  the  balcony 

Overhangs  the  street  where  the  bullock-wagons 
slowly 

Go  by  with  their  loads  of  green  and  silver  birch- 
trees 

For  the  feast  of  Corpus  Christi. 

Here  from  the  balcony 

We  look  over  the  growing  wheat,  where  the  jade- 
green  river 

Goes  between  the  pine-woods, 
40 


FROHNLEICHNAM 

Over  and  beyond  to  where  the  many  mountains 
Stand  in  their  blueness,  flashing  with  snow  and  the 
morning. 

I  have  done  ;   a  quiver  of  exultation  goes  through 

me,  like  the  first 
Breeze  of  the  morning  through  a  narrow  white 

birch. 
You  glow  at  last  like  the  mountain  tops  when  they 

catch 
Day  and  make  magic  in  heaven. 

At  last  I  can  throw  away  world  without  end,  and 

meet  you 

Unsheathed  and  naked  and  narrow  and  white  ; 
At  last  you  can  throw  immortality  off,  and  I  see  you 
Glistening   with    all    the    moment    and    all   your 

beauty. 

Shameless  and  callous  I  love  you  ; 
Out  of  indifference  I  love  you  ; 
Out  of  'mockery  we  dance  together, 
Out  of  the  sunshine  into  jthe  shadow, 
Passing  across  the  'shadow  into  the  sunlight, 
Out  of  sunlight  to  shadow. 

As  we  dance 

Your  eyes  take  all  of  me  in  as  a  communication  ; 


FROHNLEICHNAM 

As  we  dance 

I  see  you,  ah,  in  full ! 

Only  to  dance  together  in  triumph  of  being  together 

Two  white  ones,  sharp,  vindicated, 

Shining  and  touching, 

Is  heaven  of  our  own,  sheer  with  repudiation. 


IN  THE  DARK 

A  BLOTCH  of  pallor  stirs  beneath  the  high 
Square  picture-dusk,  the  window  of  dark  sky. 

A  sound  subdued  in  the  darkness  :  tears  ! 
As  if  a  bird  in  difficulty  up  the  valley  steers. 

'  Why  have  you  gone  to  the  window  ?    Why  don't 

you  sleep  ? 
How  you  have  wakened  me  ! — But  why,  why  do 

you  weep  ?  ' 

'  1  am  afraid  of  you,  1  am  afraid,  afraid  ! 
There  is  something  in  you  destroys  me /  ' 

"  You  have  dreamed  and  are  not  awake,  come  here 

to  me." 
"  No,  1  have  wakened.    It  is  you,  you  are  cruel  to 

me  !  " 

"  My  dear  !  " — "  Yes,  yes,  you  are  cruel  to  me.     You 

cast 
A  shadow  over  my  breasts  that  will  kill  me  at  last." 

43 


IN   THE   DARK 

"  Come  1  "—  "  No,  Pm  a  thing  of  life.    1  give 
armfuls  of  sunshine,  and  you  won't  let  me  live." 


"  Nay,  I'm  too  sleepy  1  "—  "  Ah,  you  are  horrible  ; 
You  stand  before  me  like  ghosts,  like  a  darkness 
upright." 

"II*  —  "  How  can  you  treat  me  so,  and  love  me  ? 
My  feet  have  no  hold,  you  take  the  sky  from  above  me." 

"  My  dear,  the  night  is  soft  and  eternal,  no  doubt 
You  love  it  1  "  —  "  It  is  dark,  it  kills  me,  1  am  put  out" 

"  My  dear,  when  you  cross  the  street  in  the  sun- 

shine, surely 
Your  own  small  night  goes  with  you.    Why  treat 

it  so  poorly  ?  ' 

"  No,  no,  1  dance  in  the  sun,  Tm  a  thing  of  life— 
'  Even  then  it  is  dark  behind  you.    Turn  round, 
my  wife." 

"  No,  how  cruel  you  are,  you  people  the  sunshine 
With    shadows  /     —  "  With    yours    I    people    the 
sunshine,  yours  and  mine  - 

44 


IN   THE   DARK 

"  ID    Ihr   darkness    we   all    arc   j'oiic,    we   arc   rone 

with  the  trees 
And  the  restless  river ;— we  are   lost  and  gone 

will)  all  these." 

11  But  1  am  myself,  1  have  nothing  to  do  with  these." 
"  Come  back  to  bed,  |let  us  sleep  on  our  mys- 

teries. 

"  Come  to  me  here,  and  lay  your  body  by  mine, 

And   1  will  be  all  the  shadow,  yon  the  shine. 

"  Come,  yon  arc  cold,  ihe  uijdit  has  frightened  yon. 
Hark  at  the  river!     It  pan!:;  as  il   hurries  through 

"  The  pine-woods.    How  I  love  them  so,  in  their 

mystery  of  not-to-be." 
"  — But  let  me  be  myself,  not  a  river  or  a  tree" 

"  Kiss  me  I  How  cold  you  are  !— Your  little  breasts 
Are  bubbles  of  ice.    kiss  me  !— You  know  how 
it  rests 

"  One  to  be  quenched,  to  be  given  up,  to  be  gone 

in  the  dark ; 
To  be  blown  out,  to  let  night  dowse  the  spark. 

45 


IN   THE   DARK 

"  But  never  mind,  my  love.    Nothing  matters, 

save  sleep  ; 
Save  you,  and  me,  and  sleep  ;    all  the  rest  will 

keep." 


46 


MUTILATION 

A  THICK  mist-sheet  lies  over  the  broken  wheat. 
I  walk  up  to  my  neck  in  mist,  holding  my  mouth  up. 
Across  there,  a  discoloured  moon  burns  itself  out. 

I  hold  the  night  in  horror  ; 
I  dare  not  turn  round. 

To-night  I  have  left  her  alone. 

They  would  have  it  I  have  left  her  for  ever. 

Oh  my  God,  how  it  aches 
Where  she  is  cut  off  from  me  ! 

Perhaps  she  will  go  back  to  England. 
Perhaps  she  will  go  back, 
Perhaps  we  are  parted  for  ever. 

If  I  go  on  walking  through  the  whole  breadth  of 

Germany 
I  come  to  the  North  Sea,  or  the  Baltic. 

47 


MUTILATION 

Over  there  is  Russia — Austria,  Switzerland,  France, 

in  a  circle  ! 
I  here  in  the  undermist  on  the  Bavarian  road. 

It  aches  in  me. 

What  is  England  or  France,  far  off, 

But  a  name  she  might  take  ? 

I  don't  mind  this  continent  stretching,  the  sea  far 

away  ; 

It  aches  in  me  for  her 

Like  the  agony  of  limbs  cut  off  and  aching  ; 
Not  even  longing, 
It  is  only  agony. 

A  cripple  ! 

Oh  God,  to  be  mutilated  ! 

To  be  a  cripple  ! 

And  if  I  never  see  her  again  ? 

I  think,  if  they  told  me  so 

I  could  convulse  the  heavens  with  my  horror. 

I  think  I  could  alter  the  frame  of  things  in  my 

agony. 

I  think  I  could  break  the  System  with  my  heart. 
I  think,  in  my  convulsion,  the  skies  would  break. 


MUTILATION 

She  too  suffers. 

But  who  could  compel  her,  if  she  chose  me  against 

them  all  ? 
She  has  not  chosen  me  finally,  she  suspends  her 

choice. 
Night  folk,  Tuatha  De  Danaan,  dark  Gods,  govern 

her  sleep, 
Magnificent  ghosts  of  the  darkness,  carry  off  her 

decision  in  sleep, 
Leave  her  no  choice,  make  her  lapse  me-ward, 

make  her, 
Oh  Gods  of  the  living  Darkness,  powers  of  Night. 

WOLFRATSHAUSEN 


49 


HUMILIATION 

I  HAVE  been  so  innerly  proud,  and  so  long  alone, 
Do  not  leave  me,  or  I  shall  break. 
Do  not  leave  me. 

What  should  I  do  if  you  were  gone  again 

So  soon  ? 

What  should  I  look  for  ? 

Where  should  I  go  ? 

What  should  I  be,  I  myself, 

"  I  "  ? 

What  would  it  mean,  this 

I? 

Do  not  leave  me. 

What  should  I  think  of  death  ? 

If  I  died,  it  would  not  be  you  : 

It  would  be  simply  the  same 

Lack  of  you. 

The  same  want,  life  or  death, 

Unfulfilment, 

The  same  insanity  of  space 

You  not  there  for  me. 

50 


HUMILIATION 

Think,  I  daren't  die 

For  fear  of  the  lack  in  death. 

And  I  daren't  live. 

Unless  there  were  a  morphine  or  a  drug. 

I  would  bear  the  pain. 

But  always,  strong,  unremitting 

It  would  make  me  not  me. 

The  thing  with  my  body  that  would  go  on 

living 

Would  not  be  me. 
Neither  life  nor  death  could  help. 

Think,  I  couldn't  look  towards  death 

Nor  towards  the  future  : 

Only  not  look. 

Only  myself 

Stand  still  and  bind  and  blind  myself. 

God,  that  I  have  no  choice  ! 

That  my  own  fulfilment  is  up  against  me 

Timelessly  ! 

The  burden  of  self-accomplishment ! 

The  charge  of  fulfilment ! 

And  God,  that  she  is  necessary  ! 

Necessary,  and  I  have  no  choice  ! 

Do  not  leave  me. 


A  YOUNG  WIFE 

THE  pain  of  loving  you 

Is  almost  more  than  I  can  bear. 

I  walk  in  fear  of  you. 

The  darkness  starts  up  where 

You  stand,  and  the  night  comes  through 

Your  eyes  when  you  look  at  me. 

Ah  never  before  did  I  see 

The  shadows  that  live  in  the  sun  ! 

Now  every  tall  glad  tree 
Turns  round  its  back  to  the  sun 
And  looks  down  on  the  ground,  to  see 
The  shadow  it  used  to  shun. 

At  the  foot  of  each  glowing  thing 
A  night  lies  looking  up. 

Oh,  and  I  want  to  sing 
And  dance,  but  I  can't  lift  up 
My  eyes  from  the  shadows  :  dark 
They  lie  spilt  round  the  cup. 

52 


A   YOUNG   WIFE 

What  is  it  ?— Hark 

The  faint  fine  seethe  in  the  air ! 

Like  the  seething  sound  in  a  shell 
It  is  death  still  seething  where 
The  wild-flower  shakes  its  bell 
And  the  sky  lark  twinkles  blue— 

The  pain  of  loving  you 

Is  almost  more  than  I  can  bear. 


53 


GREEN 

THE  dawn  was  apple-green, 

The  sky  was  green  wine  held  up  in  the  sun, 
The  moon  was  a  golden  petal  between. 

She  opened  her  eyes,  and  green 

They  shone,  clear  like  flowers  undone 
For  the  first  time,  now  for  the  first  time  seen, 

ICKING 


54 


RIVER  ROSES 

BY  the  Isar,  in  the  twilight 

We  were  wandering  and  singing, 

By  the  Isar,  in  the  evening 

We    climbed     the    huntsman's    ladder    and    sat 

swinging 

In  the  fir-tree  overlooking  the  marshes, 
While  river  met  with  river,  and  the  ringing 
Of  their  pale-green  glacier  water  filled  the  evening. 

By  the  Isar,  in  the  twilight 

We  found  the  dark  wild  roses 

Hanging  red  at  the  river  ;  and  simmering 

Frogs  were  singing,  and  over  the  river  closes 

Was  savour  of  ice  and  of  roses  ;    and  glimmering 

Fear    was    abroad.    Wre    whispered :     "  No    one 

knows  us. 

Let  it  be  as  the  snake  disposes 
Here  in  this  simmering  marsh. " 


KLOSTER  SCHAEFTLARN 


55 


GLOIRE  DE  DIJON 

WHEN  she  rises  in  the  morning 

I  linger  to  watch  her  ; 

She  spreads  the  bath-cloth  underneath  the  window 

And  the  sunbeams  catch  her 

Glistening  white  on  the  shoulders, 

While  down  her  sides  the  mellow 

Golden  shadow  glows  as 

She  stoops  to  the  sponge,  and  her  swung  breasts 

Sway  like  full-blown  yellow 

Gloire  de  Dijon  roses. 

She  drips  herself  with  water,  and  her  shoulders 

Glisten  as  silver,  they  crumple  up 

Like  wet  and  falling  roses,  and  I  listen 

For  the  sluicing  of  their  rain-dishevelled  petals. 

In  the  window  full  of  sunlight 

Concentrates  her  golden  shadow 

Fold  on  fold,  until  it  glows  as 

Mellow  as  the  glory  roses. 

ICKING 


ROSES  ON  THE  BREAKFAST 
TABLE 

JUST  a  few  of  the  roses  we  gathered  from  the  Isar 
Are  fallen,  and   their  mauve-red  petals  on  the 

cloth 

Float  like  boats  on  a  river,  while  other 
Roses  are  ready  to  fall,  reluctant  and  loth. 

She  laughs  at  me  across  the  table,  saying 

I  am  beautiful.    I  look  at  the  rumpled  young  rotes 

And  suddenly  realise,  in  them  as  in  me, 

How  lovely  the  present  is  that  this  day  discloses. 


57 


I  AM  LIKE  A  ROSE 

I  AM  myself  at  last ;  now  I  achieve 
My  very  self.     I,  with  the  wonder  mellow, 
Full  of  fine  warmth,  I  issue  forth  in  clear 
And  single  me,  perfected  from  my  fellow. 

Here  I  am  all  myself.    No  rose-bush  heaving 
Its  limpid  sap  to  culmination,  has  brought 
Itself  more  sheer  and  naked  out  of  the  green 
In  stark-clear  roses,  than  I  to  myself  am  brought. 


ROSE  OF  ALL  THE  WORLD 

I  AM  here  myself  ;  as  though  this  heave  of  effort 
At  starting  other  life,  fulfilled  my  own  : 
Rose-leaves  that  whirl  in  colour  round  a  core 
Of  seed-specks  kindled  lately  and  softly  blown 

By  all  the  blood  of  the  rose-bush  into  being — 
Strange,  that  the  urgent  will  in  me,  to  set 
My  mouth  on  hers  in  kisses,  and  so  softly 
To  bring  together  two  strange  sparks,  beget 

Another  life  from  our  lives,  so  should  send 

The  innermost  fire  of  my  own  dim  soul  out- 
spinning 

And  whirling  in  blossom  of  flame  and  being  upon 
me  ! 

That  my  completion  of  manhood  should  be  the 
beginning 

Another  life  from  mine  !    For  so  it  looks. 
The  seed  is  purpose,  blossom  accident. 
The  seed  is  all  in  all,  the  blossom  lent 
To  crown  the  triumph  of  this  new  descent. 

59 


ROSE   OF    ALL   THE   WORLD 

Is  that  it,  woman  ?    Does  it  strike  you  so  ? 
The  Great  Breath  blowing  a  tiny  seed  of  fire 
Fans  out  your  petals  for  excess  of  flame, 
Till  all  your  being  smokes  with  fine  desire  ? 

Or  are  we  kindled,  you  and  I,  to  be 
One  rose  of  wonderment  upon  the  tree 
Of  perfect  life,  and  is  our  possible  seed 
But  the  residuum  of  the  ecstasy  ? 

How  will  you  have  it  ? — the  rose  is  all  in  all, 
Or  the  ripe  rose-fruits  of  the  luscious  fall  ? 
The  sharp  begetting,  or  the  child  begot  ? 
Our  consummation  matters,  or  does  it  not  ? 

To  me  it  seems  the  seed  is  just  left  over 

From  the  red  rose-flowers*  fiery  transience  ; 

Just  orts  and  slarts  ;   berries  that  smoulder  in  the 

bush 
Which  burnt  just  now  with  marvellous  immanence. 

Blossom,  my  darling,  blossom,  be  a  rose 
Of  roses  unchidden  and  purposeless  ;  a  rose 
For  rosiness  only,  without  an  ulterior  motive  ; 
For  me  it  is  more  than  enough  if  the  flower  un- 
close. 


60 


A  YOUTH  MOWING 

THERE  are  four  men  mowing  down  by  the  Isar  ; 
I  can  hear  the  swish  of  the  scythe-strokes,  four 
Sharp  breaths  taken  :   yea,  and  I 
Am  sorry  for  what's  in  store. 

The  first  man  out  of  the  four  that's  mowing 
Is  mine,  I  claim  him  once  and  for  all ; 
Though  it's  sorry  I  am,  on  his  young  feet,  knowing 
None  of  the  trouble  he's  led  to  stall. 

As  he  sees  me  bringing  the  dinner,  he  lifts 
His  head  as  proud  as  a  deer  that  looks 
Shoulder-deep  out  of  the  corn  ;  and  wipes 
His  scythe-blade  bright,  unhooks 

The  scythe-stone  and  over  the  stubble  to  me. 
Lad,  thou  hast  gotten  a  child  in  me, 
Laddie,  a  man  thou 'It  ha'e  to  be, 
Yea,  though  I'm  sorry  for  thee. 


61 


QUITE   FORSAKEN 

WHAT  pain,  to  wake  and  miss  you  ! 
To  wake  with  a  tightened  heart, 
And  mouth  reaching  forward  to  kiss  you  ! 

This  then  at  last  is  the  dawn,  and  the  bell 

Clanging  at  the  farm  !     Such  bewilderment 
Comes  with  the  sight  of  the  room,  I  cannot  tell. 

It  is  raining.    Down  the  half-obscure  road 

Four  labourers  pass  with  their  scythes 
Dejectedly  ; — a  huntsman  goes  by  with  his  load  : 

A  gun,  and  a  bunched-up  deer,  its  four  little  feet 

Clustered  dead. — And  this  is  the  dawn 
For  which  I  wanted  the  night  to  retreat  ! 


62 


FORSAKEN  AND  FORLORN 

THE  house  is  silent,  it  is  late  at  night,  I  am  alone. 

From  the  balcony 
I  can  hear  the  Isar  moan, 

Can  see  the  white 

Rift  of  the  river  eerily,  between  the  pines,  under 
a  sky  of  stone. 

Some  fireflies  drift  through  the  middle  air 

Tinily. 

I  wonder  where 
Ends  this  darkness  that  annihilates  me. 


FIREFLIES  IN  THE  CORN 

She  speaks. 

Look  at  the  little  darlings  in  the  corn  ! 

The  rye  is  taller  than  you,  who  think  yourself 
So  high  and  mighty:    look  how  the  heads  are 

borne 
Dark  and  proud  on  the  sky,  like  a  number  of 

knights 
Passing  with  spears  and  pennants  and  manly  scorn. 

Knights  indeed  ! — much  knight  I  know  will  ride 
With  his  head  held  high-serene  against  the  sky  ! 

Limping  and  following  rather  at  my  side 
Moaning  for  me  to  love  him  ! — Oh  darling  rye 

How  I  adore  you  for  your  simple  pride  ! 

And  the  dear,  dear  fireflies  wafting  in  between 
And  over  the  swaying  corn-stalks,  just  above 

All  the  dark-feathered  helmets,  like  little  green 
Stars  come  low  and  wandering  here  for  love 

Of   these   dark  knights,   shedding  their  delicate 
sheen ! 


FIREFLIES    IN   THE    CORN 

I  thank  you  I  do,  you  happy  creatures,  you  dears 
Riding  the  air,  and  carrying  all  the  time 

Your  little  lanterns  behind  you  !    Ah,  it  cheers 
My  soul  to   see  you  settling  |and  trying  to 
climb 

The  corn-stalks,  tipping  with  fire  the  spears. 

All  over  the  dim  corn's  motion,  against  the  blue 
Dark  sky   of   night,  a  wandering   glitter,    a 

swarm 
Of  questing  brilliant  souls  going  out  with  their 

true 

Proud  knights  to  battle  !     Sweet,  how  I  warm 
My  poor,  my  perished  soul  with  the  sight  of 
you  ! 


E  65 


A  DOE  AT  EVENING 

As  I  went  through  the  marshes 
a  doe  sprang  out  of  the  corn 
and  flashed  up  the  hill-side 
leaving  her  fawn. 

On  the  sky-line 
she  moved  round  to  watch, 
she  pricked  a  fine  black  blotch 
on  the  sky. 

I  looked  at  her 

and  felt  her  watching  ; 

I  became  a  strange  being. 

Still,  I  had  my  right  to  be  there  with  her, 

Her  nimble  shadow  trotting 

along  the  sky-line,  she 

put  back  her  fine,  level-balanced  head. 

And  I  knew  her. 


66 


A   DOE   AT   EVENING 

Ah  yes,  being  male,  is  not  my  head  hard-balanced, 

antlered  ? 

Are  not  my  haunches  light  ? 
Has  she  not  fled  on  the  same  wind  with  me  ? 
Does  not  my  fear  cover  her  fear  ? 

IRSCHENHAUSEN 


67 


SONG  OF  A  MAN  WHO  IS 
NOT  LOVED 

THE  space  of  the  world  is  immense,  before  me  and 

around  me  ; 
If  I  turn  quickly,  I   am  terrified,  feeling  space 

surround  me  ; 
Like  a  man  in  a  boat  on  very  clear,  deep  water, 

space  frightens  and  confounds  me. 

I  see  myself  isolated  in  the  universe,  and  wonder 
What  effect  I  can  have.    My  hands  wave  under 
The  heavens  like  specks  of  dust  that  are  floating 
asunder. 

I  hold  myself  up,  and  feel  a  big  wind  blowing 
Me  like  a  gadfly  into  the  dusk,  without  my  know- 
ing 
Whither  or  why  or  even  how  I  am  going. 

So  much  there  is  outside  me,  so  infinitely 
Small  am  I,  what  matter  if  minutely 
I  beat  my  way,  to  be  lost  immediately  ? 
68 


A   MAN   WHO    IS   NOT   LOVED 

How  shall  I  flatter  myself  that  I  can  do 

Anything  in  such  immensity  ?     I  am  too 

Little  to  count  in  the  wind  that  drifts  me  through. 


GLASHUTTE 


69 


SINNERS 

THE  big  mountains  sit  still  in  the  afternoon  light 

Shadows  in  their  lap  ; 

The  bees  roll  round  in  the  wild-thyme  with  de- 
iKght. 

We  sitting  here  'among  the  cranberries 

So  still  in  the  gap 
Of  rock,  distilling  our  memories 

Are  sinners  !    Strange  !    The  bee  that  blunders 

Against  me  goes  off  with  a  laugh. 
A  squirrel  cocks  his  head  on  the  fence,  and 
wonders 

What  about  sin  ? — For,  it  seems 

The  mountains  have 

No  shadow  of  us  on  their   snowy  forehead  of 
dreams 

As  they  ought  to  have.    They  rise  above  us 

Dreaming 

For  ever.    One  even  might  think  that  they  love  us. 
70 


SINNERS 

Little  red  cranberries  cheek  to  cheek, 

Two  great  dragon-flies  wrestling  ; 

You,  with  your  forehead  nestling 

Against  me,  and  bright  peak  shining  to  peak — 

There's  a  love-song  for  you  ! — Ah,  if  only 

There  were  no  teeming 

Swarms  of  mankind  in  the  world,  and  we  were 
less  lonely  ! 

MAYRHOFEN 


MISERY 

OUT  of  this  oubliette  between  the  mountains 

five  valleys  go,  five  passes  like  gates  ; 

three  of  them  black  in  shadow,  two  of  them  bright 

with  distant  sunshine; 

and  sunshine  fills  one  high  valley  bed, 

green  grass  shining,  and  little  white  houses 

like  quartz  crystals, 

little,  but  distinct  a  way  off. 

Why  don't  I  go? 

Why  do  I  crawl  about  this  pot,  this  oubliette, 

stupidly  ? 

Why  don't  I  go  ? 

But  where  ? 

If  I  come  to  a  pine-wood,  I  can't  say 

Now  I  am  arrived  ! 

What  are  so  many  straight  trees  to  me  ! 


STERZING 


72 


SUNDAY  AFTERNOON  IN 
ITALY 

THE  man  and  the  maid  go  side  by  side 
With  an  interval  of  space  between  ; 
And  his  hands  are  awkward  and  want  to  hide, 
She  braves  it  out  since  she  must  be  seen. 

When  some  one  passes  he  drops  his  head 
Shading  his  face  in  his  black  felt  hat, 
While  the  hard  girl  hardens  ;  nothing  is  said, 
There  is  nothing  to  wonder  or  cavil  at. 

Alone  on  the  open  road  again 
With  the  mountain  snows  across  the  lake 
Flushing  the  afternoon,  they  are  uncomfortable, 
The   loneliness   daunts   them,   their   stiff  throats 
ache. 

And  he  sighs  with  relief  when  she  parts  from  him  ; 
Her  proud  head  held  in  its  black  silk  scarf 
Gone  under  the  archway,  home,  he  can  join 
The  men  that  lounge  in  a  group  on  the  wharf. 

73 


SUNDAY  AFTERNOON   IN   ITALY 

His  evening  is  a  flame  of  wine 
Among  the  eager,  cordial  men. 
And  she  with  her  women  hot  and  hard 
Moves  at  her  ease  again. 

She  is  marked,  she  is  singled  out 

For  the  fire  : 
The  brand  is  upon  him,  look — you. 

Of  desire. 

They  are  chosen,  ah,  they  are  fated 

For  the  fight ! 
Champion  her,  all  you  women  I    Men,  menfolk 

Hold  him  your  light  I 

Nourish  her,  train  her,  harden  her 

Women  all ! 
Fold  him,  be  good  to  him,  cherish  him 

Men,  ere  he  fall. 

Women,  another  champion  ! 

This,  men,  is  yours  ! 
Wreathe  and  enlap  and  anoint  them 

Behind  separate  doors. 


GARGNANO 


74 


WINTER  DAWN 

GREEN  star  Sinus 

Dribbling  over  the  lake  ; 

The  stars  have  gone  so  far  on  their  road. 

Yet  we're  awake  ! 

Without  a  sound 
The  new  young  year  comes  in 
And  is  half-way  over  the  lake. 
We  must  begin 

Again.    This  love  so  full 
Of  hate  has  hurt  us  so, 
We  lie  side  by  side 
Moored — but  no, 

Let  me  get  up 
And  wash  quite  clean 
Of  this  hate  — 
So  green 


75 


WINTER   DAWN 

The  great  star  goes  ! 
I  am  washed  quite  clean, 
Quite  clean  of  it  all. 
But  e'en 

So  cold,  so  cold  and  clean 
Now  the  hate  is  gone  ! 
It  is  all  no  good, 
I  am  chilled  to  the  bone 

Now  the  hate  is  gone  ; 
There  is  nothing  left ; 
I  am  pure  like  bone, 
Of  all  feeling  bereft. 


A  BAD  BEGINNING 

THE  yellow  sun  steps  over  the  mountain-top 
And  falters  a  few  short  steps  across  the  lake — • 
Are  you  awake  ? 

See,  glittering  on  the  milk-blue,  morning  lake 
They  are  laying  the  golden  racing-track  of  the 

sun  ; 
The  day  has  begun. 

The  sun  is  in  my  eyes,  I  must  get  up. 

I  want  to  go,  there's  a  gold  road  blazes  before 

My  breast — which  is  so  sore. 

What  ? — your  throat  is  bruised,  bruised  with  my 

kisses  ? 

Ah,  but  if  I  am  cruel  what  then  are  you  ? 
I  am  bruised  right  through. 

What  if  I  love  you  ! — This  misery 
Of  your  dissatisfaction  and  misprision 
Stupefies  me. 

77 


A   BAD    BEGINNING 

Ah  yes,  your  open  arms  !    Ah  yes,  ah  yes, 
You  would  take  me  to  your  breast ! — But  no, 
You  should  come  to  mine, 
It  were  better  so. 

Here  I  am — get  up  and  come  to  me  ! 

Not  as  a  visitor  either,  nor  a  sweet 

And  winsome  child  of  innocence  ;  nor 

As  an  insolent  mistress  telling  my  pulse's  beat. 

Come  to  me  like  a  woman  coming  home 
To  the  man  who  is  her  husband,  all  the  rest 
Subordinate  to  this,  that  he  and  she 
Are  joined  together  for  ever,  as  is  best. 

Behind  me  on  the  lake  I  hear  the  steamer  drum- 
ming 

From  Austria.    There  lies  the  world,  and  here 
Am  I.    Which  way  are  you  coming  ? 


WHY  DOES  SHE  WEEP? 

HUSH  then 
why  do  you  cry  ? 
It's  you  and  me 
the  same  as  before. 

If  you  hear  a  rustle 
it's  only  a  rabbit 
gone  back  to  his  hole 
in  a  bustle. 

If  something  stirs  in  the  branches 
overhead,  it  will  be  a  squirrel  moving 
uneasily,  disturbed  by  the  stress 
of  our  loving. 

Why  should  you  cry  then  ? 
Are  you  afraid  of  God 
in  the  dark  ? 

I'm  not  afraid  of  God. 
Let  him  come  forth. 
If  he  is  hiding  in  the  cover 
let  him  come  forth. 

79 


WHY   DOES    SHE   WEEP? 

Now  in  the  cool  of  the  day 
it  is  we  who  walk  in  the  trees 
and  call  to  God  "  Where  art  thou  ?  ' 
And  it  is  he  who  hides. 

Why  do  you  cry  ? 

My  heart  is  bitter. 

Let  God  come  forth  to  justify 

himself  now. 

Why  do  you  cry  ? 

Is  it  Wehmut,  ist  dir  weh  ? 

Weep  then,  yea 

for  the  abomination  of  our  old  righteousness. 

We  have  done  wrong 

many  times  ; 

but  this  time  we  begin  to  do  right. 

Weep  then,  weep 

for  the  abomination  of  our  past  righteousness. 

God  will  keep 

hidden,  he  won't  come  forth. 


80 


GIORNO  DEI  MORTI 

ALONG  the  avenue  of  cypresses 

All  in  their  scarlet  cloaks,  and  surplices 

Of  linen  go  the  chanting  choristers, 

The  priests  in  gold  and  black,  the  villagers.  .  .  . 

And  all  along  the  path  to  the  cemetery 
The  round  dark  heads  of  men  crowd  silently, 
And  black-scarved  faces  of  women-folk,  wistfully 
Watch  at  the  banner  of  death,  and  the  mystery. 

And  at  the  foot  of  a  grave  a  father  stands 
With  sunken  head,  and  forgotten,  folded  hands  ; 
And  at  the  foot  of  a  grave  a  mother  kneels 
With  pale  shut  face,  nor  either  hears  nor  feels 

The  coming  of  the  chanting  choristers 
Between  the  avenue  of  cypresses, 
The  silence  of  the  many  villagers, 
The  candle-flames  beside  the  surplices. 


81 


ALL  SOULS 

THEY  are  chanting  now  the  service  of  All  the  Dead 
And  the  village  folk  outside  in  the  burying  ground 
Listen — except  those  who  strive  with  their  dead, 
Reaching   out   in   anguish,   yet   unable   quite   to 

touch  them  : 

Those  villagers  isolated  at  the  grave 
Where  the  candles  burn  in  the  daylight,  and  the 

painted  wreaths 
Are  propped  on  end,  there,  where  the  mystery 

starts. 

^f- 

The  naked  candles  burn  on  every  grave. 
On  your  grave,  in  England,  the  weeds  grow. 

But  I  am  your  naked  candle  burning, 
And  that  is  not  your  grave,  in  England, 
The  world  is  your  grave. 
And  my  naked  body  standing  on  your  grave 
Upright  towards  heaven  is  burning  off  to  you 
Its  flame  of  life,  now  and  always,  till  the  end. 

It  is  my  offering  to  you ;  every  day  is  All  Souls' 

Day. 
82 


ALL   SOULS 

I  forget  you,  have  forgotten  you. 
I  am  busy  only  at  my  burning, 
I  am  busy  only  at  my  life. 
But  my  feet  are  on  your  grave,  planted. 
And  when  I  lift  my  face,  it  is  a  flame  that  goes  up 
To  the  other  world,  where  you  are  now. 
But  I  am  not  concerned  with  you. 
I  have  forgotten  you. 

I  am  a  naked  candle  burning  on  your  grave. 


LADY  WIFE 

AH  yes,  I  know  you  well,  a  sojourner 

At  the  hearth  ; 
I  know  right  well  the  marriage  ring  you  wear, 

And  what  it's  worth. 


The  angels  came  to  Abraham,  and  they  stayed 

In  his  house  awhile  ; 
So  you  to  mine,  I  imagine  ;  yes,  happily 

Condescend  to  be  vile. 


I  see  you  all  the  time,  you  bird-blithe,  lovely 

Angel  in  disguise. 
I  see  right  well  how  I  ought  to  be  grateful, 

Smitten  with  reverent  surprise. 


Listen,  I  have  no  use 
For  so  rare  a  visit ; 

Mine  is  a  common  devil's 
Requisite. 


LADY   WIFE 

Rise  up  and  go,  I  have  no  use  for  you 
And  your  blithe,  glad  mien. 

No  angels  here,  for  me  no  goddesses, 
Nor  any  Queen. 


Put  ashes  on  your  head,  put  sackcloth  on 

And  learn  to  serve. 
You  have  fed  me  with  your  sweetness,  now  I  am  sick, 

As  I  deserve. 


Queens,  ladies,  angels,  women  rare, 

I  have  had  enough. 
Put  sackcloth  on,  be  crowned  with  powdery  ash, 

Be  common  stuff. 


And  serve  now  woman,  serve,  as  a  woman  should, 

Implicitly. 
Since  I  must  serve  and  struggle  with  the  imminent 

Mystery. 


Serve  then,  I  tell  you,  add  your  strength  to  mine 

Take  on  this  doom. 
What  are  you  by  yourself,  do  you  think,  and  what 

The  mere  fruit  of  your  womb  ? 

85 


LADY   WIFE 

What  is  the  fruit  of  your  womb  then,  you  mother, 

you  queen, 

When  it  falls  to  the  ground  ? 
Is  it  more  than  the  apples  of  Sodom  you  scorn  so, 

the  men 
Who  abound  ? 


Bring  forth  the  sons  of  your  womb  then,  and  put 
them 

Into  the  fire 
Of  Sodom  that  covers  the  earth  ;  bring  them  forth 

From  the  womb  of  your  precious  desire. 


You  woman  most  holy,  you  mother,  you  being 
beyond 

Question  or  diminution, 
Add  yourself  up,  and  your  seed,  to  the  nought 

Of  your  last  solution. 


86 


BOTH  SIDES  OF  THE  MEDAL 

AND  because  you  love  me 

think  you  you  do  not  hate  me  ? 

Ha,  since  you  love  me 

to  ecstasy 

it  follows  you  hate  me  to  ecstasy. 

Because  when  you  hear  me 

go  down  the  road  outside  the  house 

you  must  come  to  the  window  to  watch  me  go, 

do  you  think  it  is  pure  worship  ? 

Because,  when  I  sit  in  the  room, 

here,  in  my  own  house, 

and  you  want  to  enlarge  yourself  with  this  friend  of 

mine, 

such  a  friend  as  he  is, 

yet  you  cannot  get  beyond  your  awareness  of  me 
you  are  held  back  by  my  being  in  the  same  world 

with  you, 

do  you  think  it  is  bliss  alone  ? 
sheer  harmony  ? 

8? 


BOTH    SIDES    OF    THE    MEDAL 

No  doubt  if  I  were  dead,  you  must 

reach  into  death  after  me, 

but  would  not  your  hate  reach  even  more  madly 

than  your  love  ? 
your  impassioned,  unfinished  hate  ? 

Since  you  have  a  passion  for  me, 

as  I  for  you, 

does  not  that  passion  stand  in  your  way  like  a 

Balaam 's  ass  ? 
and  am  I  not  Balaam's  ass 
golden-mouthed  occasionally  ? 
But  mostly,  do  you  not  detest  my  bray  ? 

Since  you  are  confined  in  the  orbit  of  me 

do  you  not  loathe  the  confinement  ? 

Is  not  even  the  beauty  and  peace  of  an  orbit 

an  intolerable  prison  to  you, 

as  it  is  to  everybody  ? 

But  we  will  learn  to  submit 

each  of  us  to  the  balanced,  eternal  orbit 

wherein  we  circle  on  our  fate 

in  strange  conjunction. 

What  is  chaos,  my  love  ? 

It  is  not  freedom. 

A  disarray  of  falling  stars  coming  to  nought. 

88 


LOGGERHEADS 

PLEASE  yourself  how  you  have  it. 
Take  my  words,  and  fling 
Them  down  on  the  counter  roundly  ; 
See  if  they  ring. 

Sift  my  looks  and  expressions, 
And  see  what  proportion  there  is 
Of  sand  in  my  doubtful  sugar 
Of  verities. 


Have  a  real  stock-taking 

Of  my  manly  breast ; 

Find  out  if  I'm  sound  or  bankrupt, 

Or  a  poor  thing  at  best. 


For  I  am  quite  indifferent 

To  your  dubious  state, 

As  to  whether  youVe  found  a  fortune 

In  me,  or  a  flea-bitten  fate. 


LOGGERHEADS 

Make  a  good  investigation 

Of  all  that  is  there, 

And  then,  if  it's  worth  it,  be  grateful- 

If  not  then  despair. 


If  despair  is  our  portion 

Then  let  us  despair. 

Let  us  make  for  the  weeping  willow. 

I  don't  care. 


90 


DECEMBER  NIGHT 

TAKE  off  your  cloak  and  your  hat 

And  your  shoes,  and  draw  up  at  my  hearth 

Where  never  woman  sat. 


I  have  made  the  fire  up  bright ; 
Let  us  leave  the  rest  in  the  dark 
And  sit  by  firelight. 


The  wine  is  warm  in  the  hearth ; 
The  flickers  come  and  go. 
I  will  warm  your  feet  with  kisses 
Until  they  glow. 


NEW  YEAR'S  EVE 

THERE  are  only  two  things  now, 
The  great  black  night  scooped  out 
And  this  fire-glow. 

This  fire-glow,  the  core, 
And  we  the  two  ripe  pips 
That  are  held  in  store. 

Listen,  the  darkness  rings 
As  it  circulates  round  our  fire. 
Take  off  your  things. 

Your  shoulders,  your  bruised  throat 
Your  breasts,  your  nakedness  ! 
This  fiery  coat ! 

As  the  darkness  flickers  and  dips, 
As  the  firelight  falls  and  leaps 
From  your  feet  to  your  lips  ! 


NEW  YEAR'S  NIGHT 

Now  you  are  mine,  to-night  at  last  I  say  it ; 
You're  a  dove  I  have  bought  for  sacrifice, 
And  to-night  I  slay  it. 

Here  in  my  arms  my  naked  sacrifice  ! 

Death,  do  you  hear,  in  my  arms  I  am  bringing 

My  offering,  bought  at  great  price. 

She's  a  silvery  dove  worth  more  than  all  I've  got. 
Now  I  offer  her  up  to  the  ancient,  inexorable  God, 
Who  knows  me  not. 

Look,  she's  a  wonderful  dove,  without  blemish  or 

spot ! 

I  sacrifice  all  in  her,  my  last  of  the  world, 
Pride,  strength,  all  the  lot. 

All,  all  on  the  altar  !    And  death  swooping  down 
Like  a  falcon.    'Tis  God  has  taken  the  victim  ; 
I  have  won  my  renown. 


93 


VALENTINE'S  NIGHT 

You  shadow  and  flame, 

You  interchange, 

You  death  in  the  game  ! 

Now  I  gather  you  up, 
Now  I  put  you  back 
Like  a  poppy  in  its  cup. 

And  so,  you  are  a  maid 
Again,  my  darling,  but  new, 
Unafraid. 

My  love,  my  blossom,  a  child 
Almost !    The  flower  in  the  bud 
Again,  undefiled. 

And  yet,  a  woman,  knowing 
All,  good,  evil,  both 
In  one  blossom  blowing. 


94 


BIRTH  NIGHT 

THIS  fireglow  is  a  red  womb 

In  the  night,  where  you're  folded  up 

On  your  doom. 

And  the  ugly,  brutal  years 
Are  dissolving  out  of  you, 
And  the  stagnant  tears. 

I  the  great  vein  that  leads 

From  the  night  to  the  source  of  you, 

Which  the  sweet  blood  feeds. 

New  phase  in  the  germ  of  you  ; 
New  sunny  streams  of  blood 
Washing  you  through. 

You  are  born  again  of  me. 
I,  Adam,  from  the  veins  of  me 
The  Eve  that  is  to  be. 

What  has  been  long  ago 
Grows  dimmer,  we  both  forget, 
We  no  longer  know. 

95 


BIRTH   NIGHT 

You  are  lovely,  your  face  is  soft 
Like  a  flower  in  bud 
On  a  mountain  croft. 

This  is  Noel  for  me. 
To-night  is  a  woman  born 
Of  the  man  in  me. 


RABBIT  SNARED  IN  THE  NIGHT 

WHY  do  you  spurt  and  sprottle 
like  that,  bunny  ? 
Why  should  I  want  to  throttle 
you,  bunny  ? 

Yes,  bunch  yourself  between 

my  knees  and  lie  still. 

Lie  on  me  with  a  hot,  plumb,  live  weight, 

heavy  as  a  stone,  passive, 

yet  hot,  waiting. 

What  are  you  waiting  for  ? 
What  are  you  waiting  for  ? 
What  is  the  hot,  plumb  weight  of  your  desire  on 

me  ? 
You  have  a  hot,  unthinkable  desire  of  me,  bunny. 

What  is  that  spark 

glittering  at  me  on  the  unutterable  darkness 
of  your  eye,  bunny  ? 
The  finest  splinter  of  a  spark 
that  you  throw  off,  straight  on  the  tinder  of  my 
nerves  ! 

G  97 


RABBIT  SNARED  IN  THE  NIGHT 

It  sets  up  a  strange  fire, 

a  soft,  most  unwarrantable  burning 

a  bale-fire  mounting,  mounting  up  in  me. 

'Tis  not  of  me,  bunny. 
It  was  you  engendered  it, 
with  that  fine,  demoniacal  spark 
you  jetted  off  your  eye  at  me. 

/  did  not  want  it, 

this  furnace,  this  draught-maddened  fire 
which  mounts  up  my  arms 

making    them    swell    with    turgid,    ungovernable 
strength. 

'Twas  not  /  that  wished  it, 

that  my  fingers  should  turn  into  these  flames 

avid  and  terrible 

that  they  are  at  this  moment. 

It  must  have  been  your  inbreathing,  gaping  desire 
that  drew  this  red  gush  in  me ; 
I  must  be  reciprocating  your  vacuous,  hideous 
passion. 

It  must  be  the  want  in  you 

that  has  drawn  this  terrible  draught  of  white  fire 

up  my  veins  as  up  a  chimney. 


RABBIT  SNARED  IN  THE  NIGHT 

It  must  be  you  who  desire 

this  intermingling  of  the  black   and   monstrous 

fingers  of  Moloch 
in  the  blood-jets  of  your  throat. 

Come,  you  shall  have  your  desire, 
since  already  I  am  implicated  with  you 
in  your  strange  lust. 


99 


PARADISE  RE-ENTERED 

THROUGH  the  strait  gate  of  passion, 
Between  the  bickering  fire 
Where  flames  of  fierce  love  tremble 
On  the  body  of  fierce  desire  : 


To  the  intoxication, 

The  mind,  fused  down  like  a  bead, 

Flees  in  its  agitation 

The  flames'  stiff  speed  : 


At  last  to  calm  incandescence, 
Burned  clean  by  remorseless  hate, 
Now,  at  the  day's  renascence 
We  approach  the  gate. 


Now,  from  the  darkened  spaces 
Of  fear,  and  of  frightened  faces, 
Death,  in  our  awful  embraces 
Approached  and  passed  by  ; 
100 


PARADISE   RE-ENTERED 

We  near  the  flame-burnt  porches 
Where  the  brands  of  the  angels,  like  torches 
Whirl, — in  these  perilous  marches 
Pausing  to  sigh  ; 


We  look  back  on  the  withering  roses, 
The  stars,  in  their  sun-dimmed  closes, 
Where  'twas  given  us  to  repose  us 
Sure  on  our  sanctity  ; 


Beautiful,  candid  lovers, 
Burnt  out  of  our  earthy  covers, 
We  might  have  nestled  like  plovers 
In  the  fields  of  eternity. 


There,  sure  in  sinless  being, 
All-seen,  and  then  all-seeing, 
In  us  life  unto  death  agreeing, 
We  might  have  lain. 


But  we  storm  the  angel-guarded 
Gates  of  the  long-discarded, 
Garden,  which  God  has  hoarded 
Against  our  pain. 

101 


PARADISE  RE-ENTERED 

The  Lord  of  Hosts,  and  the  Devil 
Are  left  on  Eternity's  level 
Field,  and  as  victors  we  travel 
To  Eden  home. 


Back  beyond  good  and  evil 
Return  we.    Eve  dishevel 
Your  hair  for  the  bliss-drenched  revel 
On  our  primal  loam. 


102 


SPRING  MORNING 

AH,  through  the  open  door 
Is  there  an  almond  tree 
Aflame  with  blossom  ! 

— Let  us  fight  no  more. 


Among  the  pink  and  blue 

Of  the  sky  and  the  almond  flowers 

A  sparrow  flutters. 

— We  have  come  through, 


It  is  really  spring  ! — See, 
When  he  thinks  himself  alone 
How  he  bullies  the  flowers. 
— Ah,  you  and  me 


How  happy  we'll  be  ! — See  him 
He  clouts  the  tufts  of  flowers 
In  his  impudence. 

— But,  did  you  dream 

103 


SPRING   MORNING 

It  would  be  so  bitter  ?    Never  mind 
It  is  finished,  the  spring  is  here. 
And  we're  going  to  be  summer-happy 
And  summer-kind. 

We  have  died,  we  have  slain  and  been  slain, 
We  are  not  our  old  selves  any  more. 
I  feel  new  and  eager 
To  start  again. 

It  is  gorgeous  to  live  and  forget. 
And  to  feel  quite  new. 
See  the  bird  in  the  flowers  ? — he's  making 
A  rare  to-do  ! 

He  thinks  the  whole  blue  sky 
Is  much  less  than  the  bit  of  blue  egg 
He's  got  in  his  nest — we'll  be  happy 
You  and  I,  I  and  you. 

With  nothing  to  fight  any  more — 
In  each  other,  at  least. 
See,  how  gorgeous  the  world  is 
Outside  the  door  ! 


SAN   GAUDENZIO 


104 


WEDLOCK 


COME,  my  little  one,  closer  up  against  me, 
Creep  right  up,  with  your  round  head  pushed  in 
my  breast. 


How  I  love  all  of  you  !     Do  you  feel  me  wrap 

you 
Up  with  myself  and  my  warmth,  like  a  flame 

round  the  wick  ? 


And  how  I  am  not  at    all,  except  a  flame  that 

mounts  off  you. 
Where  I  touch  you,  I  flame  into  being  ; — but  is  it 

me,  or  you  ? 


That  round  head  pushed  in  my  chest,  like  a  nut 

in  its  socket, 
And    I   the    swift   bracts   that    sheathe  it :  those 

breasts,  those  thighs  and  knees, 

105 


WEDLOCK 

Those  shoulders  so  warm  and  smooth  :    I  feel 

that  I 
Am  a  sunlight  upon  them,  that  shines  them  into 

being. 

But  how  lovely  to  be  you  !    Creep  closer  in,  that 

I  am  more. 
I  spread  over  you  !    How  lovely,  your  round  head, 

your  arms, 

Your  breasts,  your  knees  and  feet !    I  feel  that  we 
Are  a  bonfire  of  oneness,  me  flame  flung  leaping 

round  you, 
You  the  core  of  the  fire,  crept  into  me. 


106 


WEDLOCK 


II 

AND  oh,  my  little  one,  you  whom  I  enfold, 
How  quaveringly  I  depend  on  you,  to  keep  me 

alive, 
Like  a  flame  on  a  wick  ! 

I,  the  man  who  enfolds  you  and  holds  you  close, 
How  my  soul  cleaves  to  your  bosom  as  I  clasp  you, 
The  very  quick  of  my  being  ! 

Suppose  you  didn't  want  me  !     I  should  sink  down 
Like  a  light  that  has  no  sustenance 
And  sinks  low. 

Cherish  me,  my  tiny  one,  cherish  me  who  enfold 

you. 

Nourish  me,  and  endue  me,  I  am  only  of  you, 
I  am  your  issue. 

How  full  and  big  like  a  robust,  happy  flame 
When  I  enfold  you,  and  you  creep  into  me, 
And  my  life  is  fierce  at  its  quick 
Where  it  comes  off  you  ! 


107 


WEDLOCK 

III 

MY  little  one,  my  big  one, 

My  bird,  my  brown  sparrow  in  my  breast. 

My  squirrel  clutching  in  to  me  ; 

My  pigeon,  my  little  one,  so  warm 

So  close,  breathing  so  still. 

My  little  one,  my  big  one, 
I,  who  am  so  fierce  and  strong,  enfolding  you, 
If  you  start  away  from  my  breast,  and  leave  me, 
How  suddenly  I  shall  go  down  into  nothing 
Like  a  flame  that  falls  of  a  sudden. 

And  you  will  be  before  me,  tall  and  towering, 

And  I  shall  be  wavering  uncertain 

Like  a  sunken  flame  that  grasps  for  support. 


108 


WEDLOCK 

IV 

BUT  now  I  am  full  and  strong  and  certain 
With  you  there  firm  at  the  core  of  me 
Keeping  me. 

How  sure  I  feel,  how  warm  and  strong  and  happy 
For  the  future  !  How  sure  the  future  is  within  me  ; 
I  am  like  a  seed  with  a  perfect  flower  enclosed. 

I  wonder  what  it  will  be, 
What  will  come  forth  of  us. 
What  flower,  my  love  ? 

No  matter,  I  am  so  happy, 

I  feel  like  a  firm,  rich,  healthy  root, 

Rejoicing  in  what  is  to  come. 

How  I  depend  on  you  utterly 

My  little  one,  my  big  one  ! 

How  everything  that  will  be,  will  not  be  of  me, 

Nor  of  either  of  us, 

But  of  both  of  us. 


109 


WEDLOCK 

V 

AND  think,  there  will  something  come  forth  from 

us. 

We  two,  folded  so  small  together, 
There  will  something  come  forth  from  us. 
Children,  acts,  utterance 
Perhaps  only  happiness. 

Perhaps  only  happiness  will  come  forth  from  us. 
Old  sorrow,  and  new  happiness. 
Only  that  one  newness. 

But  that  is  all  I  want. 
And  I  am  sure  of  that. 
We  are  sure  of  that. 


no 


WEDLOCK 

VI 

AND  yet  all  the  while  you  are  you,  you  are  not  me. 
And  I  am  I,  I  am  never  you. 
How  awfully  distinct  and  far  off  from  each  others 
being  we  are  ! 

Yet  I  am  glad. 

I  am  so  glad  there  is  always  you  beyond  my  scope, 

Something  that  stands  over, 

Something  I  shall  never  be, 

That  I  shall  always  wonder  over,  and  wait  for, 

Look  for  like  the  breath  of  life  as  long  as  I  live, 

Still  waiting  for  you,  however  old  you  are,  and  I 

am, 
I  shall  always  wonder  over  you,  and  look  for  you. 

And  you  will  always  be  with  me. 

I  shall  never  cease  to  be  filled  with  newness, 

Having  you  near  me. 


in 


HISTORY 

THE  listless  beauty  of  the  hour 
When  snow  fell  on  the  apple  trees 
And  the  wood-ash  gathered  in  the  fire 
And  we  faced  our  first  miseries. 

Then  the  sweeping  sunshine  of  noon 
When  the  mountains  like  chariot  cars 
Were  ranked  to  blue  battle — and  you  and  I 
Counted  our  scars. 

And  then  in  a  strange,  grey  hour 
We  lay  mouth  to  mouth,  with  your  face 
Under  mine  like  a  star  on  the  lake, 
And  I  covered  the  earth,  and  all  space. 

The  silent,  drifting  hours 

Of  morn  after  morn 

And  night  drifting  up  to  the  night 

Yet  no  pathway  worn. 

Your  life,  and  mine,  my  love 
Passing  on  and  on,  the  hate 
Fusing  closer  and  closer  with  love 
Till  at  length  they  mate. 

THE  CEARNE 
112 


V 


SONG  OF  A  MAN  WHO  HAS 
COME  THROUGH 

NOT  I,  not  I,  but  the  wind  that  blows  through  me  ! 
A  fine  wind  is  blowing  the  new  direction  of  Time. 
If  only  I  let  it  bear  me,  carry  me,  if  only  it  carry 

me  ! 
If  only  I    am   sensitive,  subtle,   oh,    delicate,   a 

winged  gift ! 
If  only,  most  lovely  of  all,  I  yield  myself  and  am 

borrowed 
By  the  fine,  fine  wind  that  takes  its  course  through 

the  chaos  of  the  world 
Like  a  fine,  an  exquisite  chisel,  a  wedge-blade 

inserted  ; 
If  only  I  am  keen  and  hard  like  the  sheer  tip  of  a 

wedge 

Driven  by  invisible  blows, 
The  rock  will  split,  we  shall  come  at  the  wonder, 

we  shall  find  the  Hesperides. 

Oh,  for  the  wonder  that  bubbles  into  my  soul, 
I  would  be  a  good  fountain,  a  good  well-head, 
Would  blur  no  whisper,  spoil  no  expression. 

H  113 


SONG   OF  A   MAN 

What  is  the  knocking  ? 

What  is  the  knocking  at  the  door  in  the  night  ? 

It  is  somebody  wants  to  do  us  harm. 

No,  no,  it  is  the  three  strange  angels. 
Admit  them,  admit  them. 


114 


ONE  WOMAN  TO  ALL  WOMEN 

I  DON'T  care  whether  I  am  beautiful  to  you 

You  other  women. 

Nothing  of  me  that  you  see  is  my  own ; 
A  man  balances,  bone  unto  bone 
Balances,  everything  thrown 

In  the  scale,  you  other  women. 


You  may  look  and  say  to  yourselves,  I  do 

Not  show  like  the  rest. 
My  face  may  not  please  you,  nor  my  stature  ;  yet 

if  you  knew 
How  happy  I  am,  how  my  heart  in  the  wind  rings 

true 

Like  a  bell  that  is  chiming,  each  stroke  as  a  stroke 
falls  due, 

You  other  women  : 


You  would  draw  your  mirror  towards  you,  you 
would  wish 

To  be  different. 

US 


ONE   WOMAN   TO   ALL   WOMEN 

There's  the  beauty  you  cannot  see,  myself  and 

him 

Balanced  in  glorious  equilibrium, 
The  swinging  beauty  of  equilibrium, 
You  other  women. 

There's  this  other  beauty,  the  way  of  the  stars 

You  straggling  women. 

If  you  knew  how  I  swerve  in  peace,  in  the  equi- 
poise 

With  the  man,  if  you  knew  how  my  flesh  enjoys 
The  swinging  bliss  no  shattering  ever  destroys 

You  other  women  : 

You  would  envy  me,  you  would  think  me  wonder- 
ful 

Beyond  compare  ; 

You  would  weep  to  be  lapsing  on  such  harmony 
As  carries  me,  you  would  wonder  aloud  that  he 
Who  is  so  strange  should  correspond  with  me 

Everywhere. 

You  see  he  is  different,  he  is  dangerous, 

Without  pity  or  love. 

And  yet  how  his  separate  being  liberates  me 
And  gives  me  peace  !    You  cannot  see 
How  the  stars  are  moving  in  surety 

Exquisite,  high  above. 
116 


ONE   WOMAN   TO   ALL   WOMEN 

We  move  without  knowing,  we  sleep,   and  we 
travel  on, 

You  other  women. 

And  this  is  beauty  to  me,  to  be  lifted  and  gone 
In  a  motion  human  inhuman,  two  and  one 
Encompassed,  and  many  reduced  to  none, 
You  other  women. 

KENSINGTON 


117 


PEOPLE 

THE  great  gold  apples  of  night 
Hang  from  the  street's  long  bough 

Dripping  their  light 
On  the  faces  that  drift  below, 
On  the  faces  that  drift  and  blow 
Down  the  night-time,  out  of  sight 

In  the  wind's  sad  sough. 

The  ripeness  of  these  apples  of  night 
Distilling  over  me 

Makes  sickening  the  white 
Ghost-flux  of  faces  that  hie 
Them  endlessly,  endlessly  by 
Without  meaning  or  reason  why 

They  ever  should  be. 


118 


STREET  LAMPS 

GOLD,  with  an  innermost  speck 
Of  silver,  singing  afloat 

Beneath  the  night, 
Like  balls  of  thistle-down 
Wandering  up  and  down 
Over  the  whispering  town 

Seeking  where  to  alight ! 

Slowly,  above  the  street 
Above  the  ebb  of  feet 

Drifting  in  flight ; 
Still,  in  the  purple  distance 
The  gold  of  their  strange  persistence 
As  they  cross  and  part  and  meet 

And  pass  out  of  sight ! 

The  seed-ball  of  the  sun 
Is  broken  at  last,  and  done 

Is  the  orb  of  day. 
Now  to  the  separate  ends 
Seed  after  day-seed  wends 

A  separate  way. 

119 


STREET   LAMPS 

No  sun  will  ever  rise 
Again  on  the  wonted  skies 

In  the  midst  of  the  spheres. 
The  globe  of  the  day,  over-ripe, 
Is  shattered  at  last  beneath  the  stripe 
Of  the  wind,  and  its  oneness  veers 

Out  myriad-wise. 

Seed  after  seed  after  seed 
Drifts  over  the  town,  in  its  need 

To  sink  and  have  done  ; 
To  settle  at  last  in  the  dark, 
To  bury  its  weary  spark 

Where  the  end  is  begun. 

Darkness,  and  depth  of  sleep, 
Nothing  to  know  or  to  weep 

Where  the  seed  sinks  in 
To  the  earth  of  the  under-night 
Where  all  is  silent,  quite 
Still,  and  the  darknesses  steep 

Out  all  the  sin. 


120 


'SHE  SAID  AS  WELL  TO  ME" 

SHE  said  as  well  to  me  :    "  Why  are  you  ashamed  ? 
That  little  bit  of  your  chest  that  shows  between 
the  gap  of  your  shirt,  why  cover  it  up  ? 
Why  shouldn't  your  legs  and  your  good  strong 

thighs 
be   rough   and   hairy?  —  I'm  glad   they  are   like 

that. 

You  are  shy,  you  silly,  you  silly  shy  thing. 
Men  are  the  shyest  creatures,  they  never  will  come 
out  of  their  covers.    Like  any  snake 
slipping  into  its  bed  of  dead  leaves,  you  hurry  into 

your  clothes. 
And  I  love  you  so  !    Straight  and  clean  and  all  of  a 

piece  is  the  body  of  a  man, 
such  an  instrument,  a  spade,  like  a  spear,  or  an 

oar, 

such  a  joy  to  me — " 
So  she  laid  her  hands  and  pressed  them  down  my 

sides, 
so  that  I  began  to  wonder  over  myself,  and  what  I 

was. 


121 


SHE    SAID   AS   WELL   TO   ME 

She  said   to   me  :    "  What   an  instrument,  your 

body  ! 

single  and  perfectly  distinct  from  everything  else  ! 
What  a  tool  in  the  hands  of  the  Lord  ! 
Only  God  could  have  brought  it  to  its  shape. 
It  feels  as  if  his  handgrasp,  wearing  you 
had  polished  you  and  hollowed  you, 
hollowed  this  groove  in  your  sides,  grasped  you 

under  the  breasts 

and  brought  you  to  the  very  quick  of  your  form, 
subtler  than  an  old,  soft- worn  fiddle-bow. 

"  When  I  was  a  child,  I  loved  my  father's  riding- 
whip 

that  he  used  so  often. 

I  loved  to  handle  it,  it  seemed  like  a  near  part  of 
him. 

So  I  did  his  pens,  and  the  jasper  seal  on  his  desk. 

Something  seemed  to  surge  through  me  when  I 
touched  them. 

"  So  it  is  with  you,  but  here 

The  joy  I  feel ! 

God  knows  what  I  feel,  but  it  is  joy  ! 

Look,  you  are  clean  and  fine  and  singled  out ! 

I  admire  you  so,  you  are  beautiful :    this  clean 

sweep  of  your  sides,  this  firmness,  this  hard 

mould  ! 
122 


SHE    SAID   AS   WELL   TO   ME 

I  would  die  rather  than  have  it  injured  with  one 

scar. 

I  wish  I  could  grip  you  like  the  fist  of  the  Lord, 
and  have  you — " 


So  she  said,  and  I  wondered, 
feeling  trammelled  and  hurt. 
It  did  not  make  me  free. 


Now  I  say  to  her  :  "  No  tool,  no  instrument,  no 

God! 

Don't  touch  me  and  appreciate  me. 
It  is  an  infamy. 
You   would   think   twice   before   you   touched   a 

weasel  on  a  fence 
as  it  lifts  its  straight  white  throat. 
Your  hand  would  not  be  so  flig  and  easy. 
Nor  the  adder  we  saw  asleep  with  her  head  on  her 

shoulder, 

curled  up  in  the  sunshine  like  a  princess  ; 
when   she   lifted   her   head   in   delicate,   startled 

wonder 

you  did  not  stretch  forward  to  caress  her 
though  she  looked  rarely  beautiful 
and  a  miracle  as  she  glided  delicately  away,  with 

such  dignity. 

123 


SHE   SAID   AS   WELL   TO   ME 

And  the  young  bull  in  the  field,  with  his  wrinkled, 
sad  face, 

you  are  afraid  if  he  rises  to  his  feet, 

though  he  is  all  wistful  and  pathetic,  like  a  mono- 
lith, arrested,  static. 

"  Is  there  nothing  in  me  to  make  you  hesitate  ? 

I  tell  you  there  is  all  these. 

And  why  should  you  overlook  them  in  me  ? — " 


124 


NEW  HEAVEN  AND  EARTH 

I 

AND  so  I  cross  into  another  world 

shyly  and  in  homage  linger  for  an  invitation 

from  this  unknown  that  I  would  trespass  on. 

I  am  very  glad,  and  all  alone  in  the  world, 
all  alone,  and  very  glad,  in  a  new  world 
where  I  am  disembarked  at  last. 

I  could  cry  with  joy,  because  I  am  in  the  new  world, 

just  ventured  in. 
I  could  cry  with  joy,  and  quite  freely,  there  is 

nobody  to  know. 

And  whosoever  the  unknown  people  of  this  un- 
known world  may  be 

they  will  never  understand  my  weeping  for  joy 
to  be  adventuring  among  them 

because  it  will  still  be  a  gesture  of  the  old  world  I 
am  making 

which  they  will  not  understand,  because  it  is 
quite,  quite  foreign  to  them. 

125 


NEW   HEAVEN   AND   EARTH 

II 

I  WAS  so  weary  of  the  world 

I  was  so  sick  of  it 

everything  was  tainted  with  myself, 

skies,  trees,  flowers,  birds,  water, 

people,  houses,  streets,  vehicles,  machines, 

nations,  armies,  war,  peace-talking, 

work,  recreation,  governing,  anarchy, 

it  was  all  tainted  with  myself,  I  knew  it  all  to  start 

with 
because  it  was  all  myself. 

When  I  gathered  flowers,  I  knew  it  was  myself 

plucking  my  own  flowering. 
When  I  went  in  a  train,  I  knew  it  was  myself 

travelling  by  my  own  invention. 
When  I  heard  the  cannon  of  the  war,  I  listened 

with  my  own  ears  to  my  own  destruction. 
When  I  saw  the  torn  dead,  I  knew  it  was  my  own 

torn  dead  body. 
It  was  all  me,  I  had  done  it  all  in  my  own  flesh. 


126 


NEW  HEAVEN  AND  EARTH 

III 

I  SHALL  never  forget  the  maniacal  horror  of  it  all 

in  the  end 
when  everything  was  me,  I  knew  it  all  already,  I 

anticipated  it  all  in  my  soul 
because  I  was  the  author  and  the  result 
I  was  the  God  and  the  creation  at  once  ; 
creator,  I  looked  at  my  creation  ; 
created,  I  looked  at  myself,  the  creator  : 
it  was  a  maniacal  horror  in  the  end. 

I  was  a  lover,  I  kissed  the  woman  I  loved, 
and  God  of  horror,  I  was  kissing  also  myself. 
I  was  a  father  and  a  begetter  of  children, 
and  oh,  oh  horror,  I  was  begetting  and  conceiving 
in  my  own  body. 


127 


NEW   HEAVEN   AND   EARTH 

IV 

AT  last  came  death,  sufficiency  of  death, 

and  that  at  last  relieved  me,  I  died. 

I   buried   my  beloved  ;    it  was   good,   I   buried 

myself  and  was  gone. 

War  came,  and  every  hand  raised  to  murder  ; 
very  good,  very  good,  every  hand  raised  to  murder  ! 
Very  good,  very  good,  I  am  a  murderer  ! 
It  is  good,  I  can  murder  and  murder,  and  see 

them  fall 

the  mutilated,  horror-struck  youths,  a  multitude 
one  on  another,  and  then  in  clusters  together 
smashed,  all  oozing  with  blood,  and  burned  in  heaps 
going  up  in  a  foetid  smoke  to  get  rid  of  them 
the  murdered  bodies  of  youths  and  men  in  heaps 
and  heaps  and  heaps  and  horrible  reeking  heaps 
till  it  is  almost  enough,  till  I  am  reduced  perhaps  ; 
thousands  and  thousands  of  gaping,  hideous  foul 

dead 

that  are  youths  and  men  and  me 
being  burned  with  oil,  and  consumed  in  corrupt 

thick  smoke,  that  rolls 
and  taints  and  blackens  the  sky,  till  at  last  it  is 

dark,  dark  as  night,  or  death,  or  hell 
and  I  am  dead,  and  trodden  to  nought  in  the 

smoke-sodden  tomb  ; 
128 


NEW   HEAVEN   AND   EARTH 

dead  and  trodden  to  nought  in  the  sour  black 

earth 
of  the  tomb  ;  dead  and  trodden  to  nought,  trodden 

to  nought. 


129 


NEW   HEAVEN   AND    EARTH 


GOD,  but  it  is  good  to  have  died  and  been  trodden 

out 

trodden  to  nought  in  sour,  dead  earth 
quite  to  nought 
absolutely  to  nothing 
nothing 
nothing 
nothing. 

For  when  it  is  quite,  quite  nothing,  then  it  is 

everything. 

When  I  am  trodden  quite  out,  quite,  quite  out 
every  vestige  gone,  then  I  am  here 
risen,  and  setting  my  foot  on  another  world 
risen,  accomplishing  a  resurrection 
risen,  not  born  again,  but  risen,  body  the  same  as 

before, 
new  beyond  knowledge  of  newness,  alive  beyond 

life 
proud  beyond  inkling  or  furthest  conception  of 

pride 
living  where  life  was  never  yet  dreamed  of,  nor 

hinted  at 

here,  in  the  other  world,  still  terrestrial 
myself,  the  same  as  before,  yet  unaccountably  new. 
130 


NEW   HEAVEN   AND   EARTH 

VI 

I,  IN  the  sour  black  tomb,  trodden  to  absolute  death 
I  put  out  my  hand  in  the  night,  one  night,  and  my 

hand 

touched  that  which  was  verily  not  me 
verily  it  was  not  me. 
Where  I  had  been  was  a  sudden  blaze 
a  sudden  flaring  blaze  ! 

So  I  put  my  hand  out  further,  a  little  further 
and  I  felt  that  which  was  not  I, 
it  verily  was  not  I 
it  was  the  unknown. 

Ha,  I  was  a  blaze  leaping  up  ! 

I  was  a  tiger  bursting  into  sunlight. 

I  was  greedy,  I  was  mad  for  the  unknown. 

I,  new-risen,  resurrected,  starved  from  the  tomb 

starved  from  a  life  of  devouring  always  myself 

now  here  was  I,  new-awakened,  with  my  hand 

stretching  out 
and  touching  the  unknown,  the  real  unknown, 

the  unknown  unknown. 

My  God,  but  I  can  only  say 
I  touch,  I  feel  the  unknown  ! 
I  am  the  first  comer  ! 


NEW   HEAVEN   AND   EARTH 

Cortes,  Pisarro,  Columbus,  Cabot,  they  are  noth- 
ing, nothing  ! 
I  am  the  first  comer  ! 
I  am  the  discoverer  ! 
I  have  found  the  other  world  ! 

The  unknown,  the  unknown  ! 

I  am  thrown  upon  the  shore. 

I  am  covering  myself  with  the  sand. 

I  am  filling  my  mouth  with  the  earth. 

I  am  burrowing  my  body  into  the  soil. 

The  unknown,  the  new  world  ! 


132 


NEW  HEAVEN  AND  EARTH 

VII 

IT  was  the  flank  of  my  wife 

I   touched  with   my  hand,  I  clutched  with  my 

hand 

rising,  new-awakened  from  the  tomb  ! 
It  was  the  flank  of  my  wife 
whom  I  married  years  ago 
at  whose  side  I  have  lain  for  over  a  thousand 

nights 
and    all    that    previous   while,    she    was    I,    she 

was  I  ; 
I  touched  her,  it  was  I  who  touched  and  I  who  was 

touched. 

Yet  rising  from  the  tomb,  from  the  black  oblivion 
stretching  out  my  hand,  my  hand  flung  like  a 

drowned  man's  hand  on  a  rock, 
I  touched  her  flank  and  knew  I  was  carried  by  the 

current  in  death 
over  to  the  new  world,  and  was  climbing  out  on 

the  shore, 
risen,  not  to  the  old  world,  the  old,  changeless  I, 

the  old  life, 

wakened  not  to  the  old  knowledge 
but  to  a  new  earth,  a  new  I,  a  new  knowledge,  a 

new  world  of  time. 

133 


NEW   HEAVEN   AND   EARTH 

Ah  no,  I  cannot  tell  you  what  it  is,  the  new  world 
I  cannot  tell  you  the  mad,  astounded  rapture  of 

its  discovery. 

I  shall  be  mad  with  delight  before  I  have  done, 
and  whosoever  comes  after  will  find  me  in  the 

new  world 
a  madman  in  rapture. 


134 


NEW   HEAVEN   AND   EARTH 

VIII 

GREEN    streams    that    flow   from   the    innermost 

continent  of  the  new  world, 
what  are  they  ? 

Green  and  illumined  and  travelling  for  ever 
dissolved  with  the  mystery  of  the  innermost  heart 

of  the  continent 

mystery  beyond  knowledge  or  endurance,  so  sump- 
tuous 

out  of  the  well-heads  of  the  new  world. — 
The  other,  she  too  has  strange  green  eyes  ! 
White  sands  and  fruits  unknown  and  perfumes 

that  never 
can    blow    across    the   dark    seas    to    our   usual 

world  ! 

And  land  that  beats  with  a  pulse  ! 
And  valleys  that  draw  close  in  love  ! 
And  strange  ways  where  I  fall  into  oblivion  of 

uttermost  living  ! — 
Also  she  who  is  the  other  has  strange-mounded 

breasts  and  strange  sheer  slopes,  and  white 

levels. 

Sightless  and  strong  oblivion  in  utter  life  takes 

possession  of  me  ! 
The  unknown,  strong  current  of  life  supreme 

135 


NEW    HEAVEN   AND    EARTH 

drowns  me  and  sweeps  me  away  and  holds  me 

down 

to  the  sources  of  mystery,  in  the  depths, 
extinguishes  there  my  risen  resurrected  life 
and  kindles  it  further  at  the  core  of  utter  mystery. 

GREATHAM 


136 


ELYSIUM 

I  HAVE  found  a  place  of  loneliness 
Lonelier  than  Lyonesse 
Lovelier  than  Paradise  ; 

Full  of  sweet  stillness 
That  no  noise  can  transgress 
Never  a  lamp  distress. 

The  full  moon  sank  in  state. 

I  saw  her  stand  and  wait 

For  her  watchers  to  shut  the  gate. 

Then  I  found  myself  in  a  wonderland 
All  of  shadow  and  of  bland 
Silence  hard  to  understand. 

I  waited  therefore  ;  then  I  knew 
The  presence  of  the  flowers  that  grew 
Noiseless,  their  wonder  noiseless  blew. 

And  flashing  kingfishers  that  flew 
In  sightless  beauty,  and  the  few 
Shadows  the  passing  wild-beast  threw. 

137 


ELYSIUM 

And  Eve  approaching  over  the  ground 
Unheard  and  subtle,  never  a  sound 
To  let  me  know  that  I  was  found. 

Invisible  the  hands  of  Eve 
Upon  me  travelling  to  reeve 
Me  from  the  matrix,  to  relieve 

Me  from  the  rest !    Ah  terribly 
Between  the  body  of  life  and  me 
Her  hands  slid  in  and  set  me  free. 

Ah,  with  a  fearful,  strange  detection 
She  found  the  source  of  my  subjection 
To  the  All,  and  severed  the  connection. 

Delivered  helpless  and  amazed 

From  the  womb  of  the  All,  I  am  waiting,  dazed 

For  memory  to  be  erased. 

Then  I  shall  know  the  Elysium 
That  lies  outside  the  monstrous  womb 
Of  time  from  out  of  which  I  come. 


138 


MANIFESTO 


A  WOMAN  has  given  me  strength  and  affluence. 
Admitted  ! 

All  the  rocking  wheat  of  Canada,  ripening  now, 
has  not  so  much  of  strength  as  the  body  of  one 

woman 

sweet  in  ear,  nor  so  much  to  give 
though  it  feed  nations. 

Hunger  is  the  very  Satan. 

The  fear  of  hunger  is  Moloch,  Belial,  the  horrible 

God. 
It  is  a  fearful  thing  to  be  dominated  by  the  fear  of 

hunger. 

Not  bread  alone,  not  the  belly  nor  the  thirsty 

throat. 
I  have  never  yet  been  smitten  through  the  belly, 

with  the  lack  of  bread, 
no,  nor  even  milk  and  honey. 

139 


MANIFESTO 

The  fear  of  the  want  of  these  things  seems  to  be 
quite  left  out  of  me. 

For  so  much,  I  thank  the  good  generations  of  man- 
kind. 


140 


MANIFESTO 

II 

AND  the  sweet,  constant,  balanced  heat 
of  the  suave  sensitive  body,  the  hunger  for  this 
has  never  seized  me  and  terrified  me. 
Here  again,  man  has  been  good  in  his  legacy  to  us, 
in  these  two  primary  instances. 


141 


MANIFESTO 

III 

THEN  the  dumb,  aching,  bitter,  helpless  need, 

the  pining  to  be  initiated, 

to  have  access  to  the  knowledge  that  the  great  dead 

have  opened  up  for  us,  to  know,  to  satisfy 

the  great  and  dominant  hunger  of  the  mind  ; 

man's  sweetest  harvest  of  the  centuries,   sweet, 

printed  books, 

bright,  glancing,  exquisite  corn  of  many  a  stubborn 
glebe  in  the  upturned  darkness  ; 
I  thank  mankind  with  passionate  heart 
that  I  just  escaped  the  hunger  for  these, 
that  they  were  given  when  I  needed  them, 
because  I  am  the  son  of  man. 

I  have  eaten,  and  drunk,  and  warmed  and  clothed 

my  body, 

I  have  been  taught  the  language  of  understanding, 
I  have  chosen  among  the  bright  and  marvellous 

books, 

like  any  prince,  such  stores  of  the  world's  supply 
were  open  to  me,  in  the  wisdom  and  goodness  of 

man. 

So  far,  so  good. 
Wise,  good  provision  that  makes  the  heart  swell 

with  love  ! 
142 


MANIFESTO 

IV 

BUT  then  came  another  hunger 

very  deep,  and  ravening  ; 

the  very  body's  body  crying  out 

with  a  hunger  more  frightening,  more  profound 

than  stomach  or  throat  or  even  the  mind  ; 

redder  than  death,  more  clamorous. 

The  hunger  for  the  woman.    Alas, 

it  is  so  deep  a  Moloch,  ruthless  and  strong, 

'tis  like  the  unutterable  name  of  the  dread  Lord, 

not  to  be  spoken  aloud. 

Yet  there  it  is,  the  hunger  which  comes  upon  us, 

which  we  must  learn  to  satisfy  with  pure,  real 

satisfaction  ; 
or  perish,  there  is  no  alternative. 

I  thought  it  was  woman,  indiscriminate  woman, 

mere  female  adjunct  of  what  I  was. 

Ah,  that  was  torment  hard  enough 

and  a  thing  to  be  afraid  of, 

a  threatening,  torturing,  phallic  Moloch. 

A  woman  fed  that  hunger  in  me  at  last. 

What  many  women  cannot  give,  one  woman  can  ; 

so  I  have  known  it. 


MANIFESTO 

She  stood  before  me  like  riches  that  were  mine. 
Even  then,  in  the  dark,  I  was  tortured,  ravening, 

unfree, 

Ashamed,  and  shameful,  and  vicious. 
A  man  is  so  terrified  of  strong  hunger  ; 
and  this  terror  is  the  root  of  all  cruelty. 
She  loved  me,  and  stood  before  me,  looking  to  me. 
How  could  I  look,  when  I  was  mad  ?    I  looked 

sideways,  furtively, 
being  mad  with  voracious  desire. 


144 


MANIFESTO 

V 

THIS  comes  right  at  last. 

When  a  man  is  rich,  he  loses  at  last  the  hunger  fear. 

I  lost  at  last  the  fierceness  that  fears  it  will  starve. 

I  could  put  my  face  at  last  between  her  breasts 

and  know  that  they  were  given  for  ever 

that  I  should  never  starve 

never  perish ; 

I  had  eaten  of  the  bread  that  satisfies 

and  my  body's  body  was  appeased, 

there  was  peace  and  richness, 

fulfilment. 

Let  them  praise  desire  who  will, 

but  only  fulfilment  will  do, 

real  fulfilment,  nothing  short. 

It  is  our  ratification 

our  heaven,  as  a  matter  of  fact. 

Immortality,  the  heaven,  is  only  a  projection  of 

this  strange  but  actual  fulfilment, 
here  in  the  flesh. 

So,  another  hunger  was  supplied, 

and  for  this  I  have  to  thank  one  woman, 

not  mankind,  for  mankind  would  have  prevented 

me  ; 

but  one  woman, 
and  these  are  my  red-letter  thanksgivings. 

K  145 


MANIFESTO 

VI 

To  be,  or  not  to  be,  is  still  the  question. 
This  ache  for  being  is  the  ultimate  hunger. 
And  for  myself,  I  can  say  "  almost,  almost,  oh, 

very  nearly." 
Yet  something  remains. 
Something  shall  not  always  remain. 
For  the  main  already  is  fulfilment. 

What  remains  in  me,  is  to  be  known  even  as  I 

know. 
I  know  her  now  :    or  perhaps,  I  know  my  own 

limitation  against  her. 

Plunging  as  I  have  done,  over,  over  the  brink 

I   have   dropped   at   last   headlong   into   nought, 

plunging  upon  sheer  hard  extinction  ; 
I  have  come,  as  it  were,  not  to  know, 
died,  as  it  were  ;  ceased  from  knowing  ;  surpassed 

myself. 
What  can  I  say  more,  except  that  I  know  what  it  is 

to  surpass  myself  ? 

It  is  a  kind  of  death  which  is  not  death. 
It  is  going  a  little  beyond  the  bounds. 
146 


MANIFESTO 

How  can  one  speak,  where  there  is  a  dumbness  on 

one's  mouth  ? 

I  suppose,  ultimately  she  is  all  beyond  me, 
she  is  all  not-me,  ultimately. 
It  is  that  that  one  comes  to. 
A  curious  agony,  and  a  relief,  when  I  touch  that 

which  is  not  me  in  any  sense, 
it  wounds  me  to  death  with  my  own  not-being  ; 

definite,  inviolable  limitation, 
and    something    beyond,    quite    beyond,    if   you 

understand  what  that  means. 
It  is  the  major  part  of  being,  this  having  surpassed 

oneself, 
this  having  touched  the  edge  of  the  beyond,  and 

perished,  yet  not  perished. 


H7 


MANIFESTO 

VII 

I  WANT  her  though,  to  take  the  same  from  me. 
She  touches  me  as  if  I  were  herself,  her  own. 
She  has  not  realized  yet,  that  fearful  thing,  that 

I  am  the  other, 

she  thinks  we  are  all  of  one  piece. 
It  is  painfully  untrue. 

I  want  her  to  touch  me  at  last,  ah,  on  the  root  and 

quick  of  my  darkness 
and  perish  on  me,  as  I  have  perished  on  her. 

Then,  we  shall  be  two  and  distinct,  we  shall  have 

each  our  separate  being. 
And  that  will  be  pure  existence,  real  liberty. 
Till  then,  we  are  confused,  a  mixture,  unresolved, 

unextricated  one  from  the  other. 
It  is  in  pure,  unutterable  resolvedness,  distinction 

of  being,  that  one  is  free, 
not  in  mixing,  merging,  not  in  similarity. 
When  she  has  put  her  hand  on  my  secret,  darkest 

sources,  the  darkest  outgoings, 
when  it  has  struck  home  to  her,  like  a  death,  "  this 

is  him  \  ' 

she  has  no  part  in  it,  no  part  whatever, 
it  is  the  terrible  other, 
148 


MANIFESTO 

when  she  knows  the  fearful  other  flesh,  ah,  dark- 
ness unfathomable  and  fearful,  contiguous  and 
concrete, 

when  she  is  slain  against  me,  and  lies  in  a  heap 
like  one  outside  the  house, 

when  she  passes  away  as  I  have  passed  away 

being  pressed  up  against  the  other, 

then  I  shall  be  glad,  I  shall  not  be  confused  with 
her, 

I  shall  be  cleared,  distinct,  single  as  if  burnished 
in  silver, 

having  no  adherence,  no  adhesion  anywhere, 

one  clear,  burnished,  isolated  being,  unique, 

and  she  also,  pure,  isolated,  complete, 

two  of  us,  unutterably  distinguished,  and  in 
unutterable  conjunction. 

Then  we  shall  be  free,  freer  than  angels,  ah, 
perfect. 


149 


MANIFESTO 

VIII 

AFTER  that,  there  will  only  remain  that  all  men 
detach  themselves  and  become  unique, 

that  we  are  all  detached,  moving  in  freedom  more 
than  the  angels, 

conditioned  only  by  our  own  pure  single  being, 

having  no  laws  but  the  laws  of  our  own  being. 

Every  human  being  will  then  be  like  a  flower, 

untrammelled. 

Every  movement  will  be  direct. 
Only  to  be  will  be  such  delight,  we  cover  our  faces 

when  we  think  of  it 
lest  our  faces  betray  us  to  some  untimely  fiend. 

Every  man  himself,  and  therefore,  a  surpassing 

singleness  of  mankind. 
The  blazing  tiger  will  spring  upon  the^deer,  un- 

dimmed, 

the  hen  will  nestle  over  her  chickens, 
we  shall  love,  we  shall  hate, 
but  it  will  be  like  music,  sheer  utterance, 
issuing  straight  out  of  the  unknown, 
the  lightning  and  the  rainbow  appearing  in  us 

unbidden,  unchecked, 
like  ambassadors. 

150 


MANIFESTO 

We  shall  not  look  before  and  after. 
We  shall  be,  now. 
We  shall  know  in  full. 
We,  the  mystic  NOW. 

ZENNOR 


AUTUMN  RAIN 

THE  plane  leaves 
fall  black  and  wet 
on  the  lawn  ; 

The  cloud  sheaves 
in  heaven's  fields  set 
droop  and  are  drawn 

in  falling  seeds  of  rain  ; 
the  seed  of  heaven 
on  my  face 

falling — I  hear  again 
like  echoes  even 
that  softly  pace 

Heaven's  muffled  floor, 
the  winds  that  tread 
out  all  the  grain 

152 


AUTUMN   RAIN 

of  tears,  the  store 

harvested 

in  the  sheaves  of  pain 

caught  up  aloft : 
the  sheaves  of  dead 
men  that  are  slain 


now  winnowed  soft 
on  the  floor  of  heaven  ; 
manna  invisible 


of  all  the  pain 
here  to  us  given  ; 
finely  divisible 
falling  as  rain. 


153 


FROST  FLOWERS 

IT  is  not  long  since,  here  among  all  these  folk 

in  London,  I  should  have  held  myself 

of  no  account  whatever, 

but  should  have  stood  aside  and  made  them  way 

thinking  that  they,  perhaps, 

had  more  right  than  I — for  who  was  I  ? 

Now  I  see  them  just  the  same,  and  watch  them. 
But  of  what  account  do  I  hold  them  ? 

Especially  the  young  women.    I  look  at  them 
as  they  dart  and  flash 

before  the  shops,  like  wagtails  on  the  edge  of  a 
pool. 

If  I  pass  them  close,  or  any  man, 

like  sharp,  slim  wagtails  they  flash  a  little  aside 

pretending  to  avoid  us  ;  yet  all  the  time 

calculating. 

They  think  that  we  adore  them — alas,  would  it 
were  true  ! 

154 


FROST   FLOWERS 

Probably  they  think  all  men  adore  them, 
howsoever  they  pass  by. 

What  is  it,  that,  from  their  faces  fresh  as  spring, 

such  fair,  fresh,  alert,  first-flower  faces, 

like   lavender   crocuses,   snowdrops,   like    Roman 

hyacinths, 
scyllas  and  yellow-haired  hellebore,  jonquils,  dim 

anemones, 

even  the  sulphur  auriculas, 
flowers  that  come  first  from  the  darkness,  and  feel 

cold  to  the  touch, 

flowers  scentless  or  pungent,  ammoniacal  almost ; 
what  is  it,  that,  from  the  faces  of  the  fair  young 

women 

comes  like  a  pungent  scent,  a  vibration  beneath 
that  startles  me,  alarms  me,  stirs  up  a  repulsion  ? 

They  are  the  issue  of  acrid  winter,  these  first- 
flower  young  women  ; 
their  scent  is  lacerating  and  repellant, 
it  smells  of  burning  snow,  of  hot-ache, 
of  earth,  winter-pressed,  strangled  in  corruption; 
it  is  the  scent  of  the  fiery-cold  dregs  of  corruption, 
when   destruction   soaks    through   the   mortified, 

decomposing  earth, 

and  the  last  fires  of  dissolution  burn  in  the  bosom 
of  the  ground. 

155 


FROST   FLOWERS 

They  are  the  flowers  of  ice-vivid  mortification, 
thaw-cold,  ice-corrupt  blossoms, 
with  a  loveliness  I  loathe  ; 

for    what    kind    of   ice-rotten,    hot-aching    heart 
must  they  need  to  root  in  ! 


CRAVING  FOR  SPRING 

I  WISH  it  were  spring  in  the  world. 

Let  it  be  spring  ! 

Come,  bubbling,  surging  tide  of  sap  ! 

Come,  rush  of  creation  ! 

Come,  life !  surge  through  this  mass  of  mortifica- 
tion ! 

Come,  sweep  away  these  exquisite,  ghastly  first- 
flowers, 

which  are  rather  last-flowers  ! 

Come,  thaw  down  their  cool  portentousness, 
dissolve  them  : 

snowdrops,  straight,  death- veined  exhalations  of 
white  and  purple  crocuses, 

flowers  of  the  penumbra,  issue  of  corruption, 
nourished  in  mortification, 

jets  of  exquisite  finality  ; 

Come,  spring,  make  havoc  of  them  ! 

I  trample  on  the  snowdrops,  it  gives  me  pleasure 

to  tread  down  the  jonquils, 
to  destroy  the  chill  Lent  lilies  ; 

157 


CRAVING   FOR   SPRING 

for  I  am  sick  of  them,  their  faint-bloodedness, 
slow-blooded,  icy-fleshed,  portentous. 

I  want  the  fine,  kindling  wine-sap  of  spring, 
gold,    and    of   inconceivably    fine,    quintessential 

brightness, 

rare  almost  as  beams,  yet  overwhelmingly  potent, 
strong  like  the  greatest  force  of  wrorld-balancing. 

This  is  the  same  that  picks  up  the  harvest  of  wheat 
and  rocks  it,  tons  of  grain,  on  the  ripening  wind  ; 
the  same  that  dangles  the  globe-shaped  pleiads  of 

fruit 
temptingly  in  mid-air,  between  a  playful  thumb  and 

finger ; 
oh,  and  suddenly,  from  out  of  nowhere,  whirls 

the  pear-bloom, 
upon  us,  and  apple-  and  almond-  and   apricot- 

and  quince-blossom, 
storms    and    cumulus    clouds    of   all    imaginable 

blossom 

about  our  bewildered  faces, 
though  we  do  not  worship. 

I  wish  it  were  spring 

cunningly  blowing  on  the  fallen  sparks,  odds  and 
ends  of  the  old,  scattered  fire, 

158 


CRAVING   FOR   SPRING 

and  kindling  shapely  little  conflagrations 
curious  long-legged  foals,  and  wide-eared  calves, 
and  naked  sparrow-bubs. 

I  wish  that  spring 

would  start  the  thundering  traffic  of  feet 

new  feet  on  the  earth,  beating  with  impatience. 

I  wish  it  were  spring,  thundering 

delicate,  tender  spring. 

I  wish  these  brittle,  frost-lovely  flowers  of  pas- 
sionate, mysterious  corruption 

were  not  yet  to  come  still  more  from  the  still- 
flickering  discontent. 

Oh,  in  the  spring,  the  bluebell  bows  him  down  for 

very  exuberance, 
exulting  with  secret  warm  excess, 
bowed  down  with  his  inner  magnificence  ! 

Oh,  yes,  the  gush  of  spring  is  strong  enough 

to  toss  the  globe  of  earth  like  a  ball  on  a  water-jet 

dancing  sportfully  ; 

as  you  see  a  tiny  celluloid  ball  tossing  on  a  squint 

of  water 
for  men  to  shoot  at,  penny-a-time,  in  a  booth  at  a 

fair. 

159 


CRAVING    FOR    SPRING 

The  gush  of  spring  is  strong  enough 

to  play  with  the  globe  of  earth  like  a  ball  on  a 

fountain  ; 
At  the  same  time  it  opens  the  tiny  hands  of  the 

hazel 
with  such  infinite  patience. 

The  power  of  the  rising,  golden,  all-creative  sap 
could  take  the  earth 

and  heave  it  off  among  the  stars,  into  the  in- 
visible ; 

the  same  sets  the  throstle  at  sunset  on  a  bough 

singing  against  the  blackbird  ; 

comes  out  in  the  hesitating  tremor  of  the  primrose, 

and  betrays  its  candour  in  the  round  white  straw- 
berry flower, 

is  dignified  in  the  foxglove,  like  a  Red-Indian 
brave. 

Ah  come,  come  quickly,  spring  ! 

Come   and  lift  us  towards   our   culmination,  we 

myriads  ; 

we  who  have  never  flowered,  like  patient  cactuses. 
Come  and  lift  us  to  our  end,  to  blossom,  bring  us 

to  our  summer 

we  who  are  winter- weary  in  the  winter  of  the  world. 
Come  making  the  chaffinch  nests  hollow  and  cosy, 
160 


CRAVING   FOR   SPRING 

come  and  soften  the  willow  buds  till  they  are 

puffed  and  furred, 
then  blow  them  over  with  gold. 
Come  and  cajole  the  gawky  colt's-foot  flowers. 


Come  quickly,  and  vindicate  us 

against  too  much  death. 

Come  quickly,  and  stir  the  rotten  globe  of  the 

world  from  within, 

burst  it  with  germination,  with  world  anew. 
Come  now,  to  us,  your  adherents,  who  cannot 

flower  from  the  ice. 
All  the  world  gleams  with  the  lilies  of  Death  the 

Unconquerable, 
but  come,  give  us  our  turn. 
Enough  of  the  virgins  and  lilies,  of  passionate, 

suffocating  perfume  of  corruption, 
no  more  narcissus  perfume,  lily  harlots,  the  blades 

of  sensation 

piercing  the  flesh  to  blossom  of  death. 
Have    done,    have    done    with    this    shuddering, 

delicious  business 
of  thrilling  ruin  in  the  flesh,  of  pungent  passion, 

of  rare,  death-edged  ecstasy. 
Give  us  our  turn,  give  us  a  chance,  let  our  hour 

strike, 
O  soon,  soon  ! 

L  161 


CRAVING   FOR   SPRING 

Let  the  darkness  turn  violet  with  rich  dawn. 

Let  the  darkness  be  warmed,  warmed  through  to  a 

ruddy  violet, 
incipient  purpling  towards  summer  in  the  world 

of  the  heart  of  man. 

Are  the  violets  already  here  ! 

Show  me  !  I  tremble  so  much  to  hear  it,  that  even 

now 

on  the  threshold  of  spring,  I  fear  I  shall  die. 
Show  me  the  violets  that  are  out. 

Oh,  if  it  be  true,  and  the  living  darkness  of  the 
blood  of  man  is  purpling  with  violets, 

if  the  violets  are  coming  out  from  under  the  rack 
of  men,  winter- rotten  and  fallen 

we  shall  have  spring. 

Pray  not  to  die  on  this  Pisgah  blossoming  with 
violets. 

Pray  to  live  through. 

If  you  catch  a  whiff  of  violets  from  the  darkness  of 

the  shadow  of  man 
it  will  be  spring  in  the  world, 
it  will  be  spring  in  the  world  of  the  living  ; 
wonderment  organising  itself,  heralding  itself  with 

the  violets, 

stirring  of  new  seasons. 
162 


CRAVING   FOR   SPRING 

Ah,  do   not  let   me   die   on  the  brink  of  such 

anticipation  ! 
Worse,  let  me  not  deceive  myself. 


ZENNOR 


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